"Alfred Bester - Demolished Man, The" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bester Alfred)

needs. That one scream had been enough for Breen. Now he was seated
alongside the couch, elegant in embroidered gown (his job paid twenty
thousand credits a year) and sharply alert (his employer was generous but
demanding).
"Go ahead, Mr. Reich."
"The Man With No Face again," Reich growled.
"Nightmares?"
"You lousy blood-sucker, peep me and find out. No. Sorry. Childish of
me. Yes, nightmares again. I was trying to rob a bank. Then I was trying to
catch a train. Then someone was singing. Me, I think. I'm trying to give
you the pictures best I can. I don't think I'm leaving anything out..."
There was a long pause. Finally Reich blurted: "Well? You peep anything?"
"You persist that you cannot identify The Man With No Face, Mr.
Reich?"
"How can I? I never see it. All I know is..."
"I think you can. You simply will not."
"Listen," Reich burst out in guilty rage. "I pay you twenty thousand.
If the best you can do is make idiotic statements..."
"Do you mean that, Mr. Reich, or is it simply a part of the general
anxiety syndrome?"
"There is no anxiety," Reich shouted. "I'm not afraid. I'm never..."
He stopped himself, realizing the inutility of ranting while the deft mind
of the peeper searched underneath his overturning words. "You're wrong
anyway," he said sulkily. "I don't know who it is. It's a Man With No Face.
That's all."
"You've been rejecting the essential points, Mr. Reich. You must be
made to see them. We'll try a little free association. Without words,
please. Just think. Robbery...
"Jewels - watches - diamonds - stocks - bonds - sovereigns -
counterfeiting - cash - bullion - dort..."
"What was that last again?"
"Slip of the mind. Meant to think bort... uncut, gem stones."
"It was not a slip. It was a significant correction or, rather,
alteration. Let's continue. Pneumatique..."
"Long - car - compartments - air - conditioned... That doesn't make
sense."
"It does, Mr. Reich. A phallic pun. Read `Heir' for `air' and you'll
see it. Continue, please."
"You peepers are too damned smart. Let's see. Pneumatique... train -
underground - compressed air - ultra sonic speed---`We transport You Into
transports,' slogan of the---What the devil is the name of that company?
Can't remember. Where'd the notion come from anyway?"
"From the pre-conscious, Mr. Reich. One more trial and you'll begin to
understand. Amphitheater...
"Seats - pits - balcony - boxes - stalls - horse stalls - Martian
horses - Martian Pampas..."
"And there you have it, Mr. Reich. Mars. In the past six months,
you've had ninety-seven nightmares about The Man With No Face. He's been
your constant enemy, frustrator, and inspirer of terror in dreams that
contain three common denominators... Finance, Transportation, and Mars.