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

to be a social gathering tonight at Lincoln Powell's house, D'Courtney's
physician will probably be there. He's on Terra for a week's visit. I'll start
the reconnaissance through him."
"And you're not afraid of Powell?"
Tate smiled contemptuously. "If I were, Mr. Reich, would I trust myself in this
bargain with you? Make no mistake. I'm no Jerry Church."
"Church!"
"Yes. Don't act surprised. Church, the 2nd. He was kicked out of the Guild ten
years ago for that little junket of his with you."
"Damn you. Got that from my mind, eh?"
"Your mind and history."
"Well, it won't repeat itself this time. You're tougher and smarter than Church.
Need anything special for Powell's party? Women? Clothes? Jewels? Money? Just
call on Monarch."
"Nothing, but thank you very much."
"Criminal but generous, that's me." Reich smiled as he arose to go. He did not
offer to shake hands.
"Mr. Reich!" Tate called suddenly.
Reich turned at the door.
"The screaming will continue. The Man With No Face is not a symbol of murder."
"What? Oh Christl The nightmares? Still? You God damned peeper. How did you get
that? How did you---"
"Don't be a fool. D'you think you can play games with a 1st?"
"Who's playing, you bastard? What about the nightmares?"
"No, Mr. Reich, I won't tell you. I doubt if anyone but a 1st can tell you, and
naturally you would not dare to consult another after this conference."
"For God's sake, man! Are you going to help me?"
"No, Mr. Reich." Tate smiled malevolently. "That's my little weapon. It keeps us
on a parity basis. Balance of power, you understand. Mutual dependence ensures
mutual faith. Criminal but peeper... that's me."
Like all upper-grade Espers, Lincoln Powell, Ph.D. 1, lived in a private house.
It was not a question of conspicuous consumption, but rather a problem of
privacy. Although thought transmission was too faint to penetrate masonry, the
average plastic apartment unit was too flimsy to block this transmission. Life
in any such multiple dwelling was life in an inferno of naked emotion for an
Esper.
Powell, the Police Prefect, could afford a small lime-stone maisonette on Hudson
Ramp overlooking the North River. There were only four rooms; upstairs a bedroom
and study, downstairs a living room and kitchen. There was no servant in the
house. Like most upper-grade Espers, Powell required large quantities of
solitude. He preferred to do for himself. He was in the kitchen, checking over
the refreshment-dials in preparation for the party, whistling a plaintive,
crooked tune.
He was a slender man in his late thirties, tall, loose, slow moving. His wide
mouth seemed perpetually on the verge of laughter, but at the moment he wore an
expression of sad disappointment. He was lecturing himself on the follies and
stupidities of his worst vice. The essence of the Esper is his responsiveness.
His personality always takes color from his surroundings. The trouble with
Powell was an enlarged sense of humor, and his response was invariably
exaggerated. He had attacks of what he called "Dishonest Abe" moods. Someone