"Bischoff, David - Night World" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bischoff David)

"Surely all that is only myth," Lord Dolan protested abruptly, hand impatiently toying with a lock of his thinning hair.

"Please, sir, I assure you that all I say is fact. All the circumstances fit. It alone could be the truth concerning conditions here on Styx. You saw the carcass of the werewolf, did you not?"

"Indeed," Viscount Dolan admitted sullenly. "Its insides were filled with the stuff of magic." Taking a snuff box from his mauve waistcoat pocket, he sniffed some of the strong-smelling stuff as Turner continued.

"No. There, sir, you are wrong. Those things you saw were of technology, a result of science. There is nothing supernatural about them. The creature was created, yes. But not by immaterial dark forces. Please, allow me to explain.

"Centuries ago, this world was a colony of an empire in space. For reasons of its own, that Empire designed this world in a style which belonged to a time centuries past on the Homeworld. But then, the Empire suddenly died, or, at any rate, lost contact with this world.

"Styx's technological facilities, which were quite extensive, were regulated by a machine; an incredibly complex machine called a Computer, situated somewhere deep below the surface of the planet. For some reason, the Computer malfunctioned, doing strange things to the environment, manufacturing hideous creatures, and recreating terrible mythological conditions modeled on the many legends of Homeworld's myth-rich past"

"Nonsense," the Viscount said quietly. He blew his nose into a fine linen handkerchief. "Virtual and utter nonsense."

"Please, sir. If I may finish," Turner said, only slightly vexed by the man's obstinacy. "After the fall of the Empire, and the malfunction of the planetwide communications network, extraordinary things began to happen. The provinces began to forget the truth of their origins. They withdrew into their separate existences, just as you of Femwold Castle maintain almost total independence. They came to regard the scientific facts of their existence as mere myth. They regressed to the social situations which were meant to serve only as their models. Fortunately, among the record-keepers of these communities, some fought this inexplicable loss of memory. They realized it was the work of some malevolent force, and they banded together . . . their original number now is gone but their descendants continue the work, seeking to rid the land of the nightmarish beasts that stalk by night, and seeking a way to kill the evil in this world at its roots."

There was an uncomfortable lull in the conversation.

"And yet you know nothing of the real cause. A few suspicions, nothing more," the Viscount said finally, rapping a genteel fist on the table. "Can you not acknowledge that the force of evil is indeed supernatural, that war is being waged here on Styx between spiritual forces, those of good, and those of evil, not by some machine?"

"I have nothing solid with which to prove to you now that such is not the case. I do know that if spiritual forces are warring as you claim, the evil faction at least may be dealt with in quite physical terms. Its representatives are mere constructs; flesh-clothed machines. Powerful, true, yet vulnerable to certain methods. The werewolf, for example, Oliver. You must know something of electricity, since you live in a castle with electric lights. The device strapped to me was simply a powerful battery. Each of the prongs of the spear was an electrode. Merely by sticking the werewolf in the right spot, I shorted its electronic circuitry. Now, would you call that a supernatural process?"

"I must admit," said Oliver in a low voice, "it seemed so at the time." He shifted uncomfortably. The air seemed much too warm where he sat by the blazing logs.

"Ah yes, I suppose it would. To less advanced cultures, advanced technology might as well be magic."

"Would you tell us your suspicions concerning the power behind these creatures?" the Viscount requested politely.

"Gladly. I was about to, as a matter of fact."

Turner cleared his throat gruffly. "It is our fraternity's belief that the World Computer which was originally responsible for the way things are, could not have done it alone. No. There was, and is a human being behind the situation. As to whether he is still alive, we do not know. But a thinking, reasoning force lies behind all this, albeit quite mad. We believe that if the Computer can be destroyed, this world can return to normalcy.

Perhaps equipment can be found to communicate with what remains of the Empire. But most important is the halting of the reign of terror that has existed on Styx these past centuries.

"Now, to the reason I've come this way. It is said that somewhere to the west a spacecraft has landed."

"A -what?" The Viscount's eyebrows rose in perplexity.

"A spaceship. A vessel from another world. Perhaps an emissary from the remains of the original Empire, come to communicate again with this faraway colony. We must contact the spacecraft, not only to re-establish communication with the other worlds in the galaxy, but to obtain the knowledge and the equipment needed to defeat the creature who holds Styx in thrall and plays with it so malevolently." Here, he paused and sighed. "Unfortunately, we do not know the exact place of descent of the ship. Our small number have divided, and are presently searching. Along the way we are, of course, only too happy to dispose of whatever beasts and nightcreatures we encounter. But what I need from you, now, is information. Have you heard anything of such a craft in the nearby land, or of a great light falling from the heavens?"

"Nothing, I fear."

"Ah, well. I suppose I'll have to journey farther west before I hear tidings of the thing." He looked at Oliver.

"And you? Have yon heard aught of what I speak?"

Oliver shook his head.

"Well, so much for that," Turner grumbled. "I just hope we can find this spaceship before he does."