"David Brin - A Stage of Memory" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brin David)

never dare back up their bluster with physical force.
"Conceit, my young friend, is a matter of interpretation. It's all relative. Haven't
you learned that yet?" He rolled his eyes heavenward. "I try so hard to pass on what
I know, yet the next generation is obdurate!"
One of the older youths stepped before Derek.
"Yes, Mr. Blakeney, you have taught us a thing or two."
Derek smiled back benignly. But the fellow was not apologizing.
"You've given a bunch of hungry young actors an object lesson in the dangers of
success, Mr. Blakeney. You've shown us how far the mighty can fall, when
arrogance substitutes for self-respect. For teaching us that, we'll slice you a
percentage of the rest of the shows this month. It won't be necessary for you to
return."
Derek snarled. "You can't do that! We have a contract!"
"We also have witnesses to your foulmouthed abuse of paying customers, Mr.
Blakeney. You can treat us like dirt beneath your feet, but mistreating the marks is
something any court in the land will recognize as just cause. Sue us, or send your
agent around. But don't show up in person or we'll call the cops."
"Yeah," one of the girls said. "And if that doesn't work, we'll break your arm!"
Derek stood very still, his breath hissing angrily through clenched teeth. He
dragged his memory for an appropriate quotation... something Shakespearean and
devastatingly apropos to the ingratitude and treachery of youth.
He couldn't come up with anything.
His mind was blank!
The blood drained out of his face and he clutched the stair rail. With a titanic
effort he straightened his shoulders and turned so the young actors wouldn't see. He
was out on the sidewalk before he trusted himself to breathe again.
I couldn't improvise a comeback to devastate those cretins! What's the matter
with me?
For an instant an unwelcome idea penetrated... the possibility that Peter had been
right, that these punks were right.
The thought seared. It was too hot to be allowed to settle in. He drove it out by
thinking about...
About getting high.
Yeah. Somewhere there must be a drug to help. Uppers did the trick when there
was work to do. Downers helped him sleep. Somewhere there had to be a drug
that'd bring back happiness.
All I need is a little peace. Then I could get my thoughts together. Make a plan.
There oughta be a jizz to help me get through the summer. I'll straighten out this fall.
Melissa won't approve, of course. She'll want me to clean up my act overnight--
What am I saying? Melissa's been gone almost a year!
He felt very odd, like a man standing at a crossroads, undecided over which way
to go and afraid that it was already too late to turn back. That sense of dщjр vu
returned again, filling him with a dreadful feeling that he had been this way before,
and was doomed to choose wrong again. And again.
Unsteadily, he walked down Forty-seventh street, past the shops and the
pedicabs, and the occasional licensed automobile. Flywheel jitneys hummed by,
picking up tourists on their way to the Village or downtown.
Slowly, the unease began to dissipate. It was summer in New York. Hardly a time
and place for heavy thinking.
I'll go see Barney, he decided. Maybe he's heard of something on the street.