"Dick, Philip K - Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dick Phillip K)

was never clear who or what this evil presence was. A Mercerite sensed evil without
understanding it. Put another way, a Mercerite was free to locate the nebulous presence of
The Killers wherever he saw fit. For Rick Deckard an escaped humanoid robot, which had
killed its master, which had been equipped with an intelligence greater than that of many
human beings, which had no regard for animals, which possessed no ability to feel emphatic
joy for another life form's success or grief at its defeat Ч that, for him, epitomized The
Killers.
Thinking about animals reminded him of the ostrich he had seen in the pet store.
Temporarily he pushed away the specs on the Nexus-6 brain unit, took a pinch of Mrs.
Siddons' No. 3 & 4 snuff and cogitated. Then he examined his watch, saw that he had time;
he picked up his desk vidphone and said to Miss Marsten, "Get me the Happy Dog Pet
Shop on Sutter Street."
"Yes sir," Miss Marsten said, and opened her phone book.
They can't really want that much for the ostrich, Rick said to himself. They expect you to
car-trade, like in the old days.
"Happy Dog Pet Shop," a man's voice declared, and on Rick's vidscreen a minute happy
face appeared. Animals could be heard bawling.
"That ostrich you have in your display window," Rich said; he toyed with a ceramic ashtray
before him on the desk. "What sort of a down payment would I need for that?"
"Let's see," the animal salesman said, groping for a pen and pad of paper. "One-third
down." He figured. "May I ask, sit, if you're going to trade something in?
Guardedly, Rick said, "I haven't decided."
"Let's say we put the ostrich on a thirty-month contract," the salesman said. "At a low, low
interest rate of six percent a month. That would make your monthly payment, after a
reasonable down Ч "
"You'll have to lower the price you're asking," Rick said. Knock off two thousand and I won't
trade anything in; I'll come up with cash." Dave Holden, he reflected, is out of action. That
could mean a great deal . . . depending on how many assignments show up during the
coming month.
"Sir," the animal salesman said, "our asking price is already a thousand dollars under
book. Check your Sidney's; I'll hang on. I want you to see for yourself, sir, that our price is
fair."
Christ, Rick thought. They're standing firm. However, just for the heck of it, he wiggled his
bent Sidney's out of his coat pocket, thumbed to ostrich comma male-female, old-young,
sick-well, mint-used, and inspected the prices.
"Mint, male, young, well," the salesman informed him. "Thirty thousand dollars." He, too,
had his Sidney's out. "We're exactly one thousand under book. Now, your down payment Ч "
"I'll think it over," Rick said, "and call you back." He started to hang up.
"Your name, sir?" the salesman asked alertly.
"Frank Merriwell," Rick said.
"And your address, Mr. Merriwell? In case I'm not here when you call back."
He made up an address and put the vidphone receiver back on its cradle. All that money,
he thought. And yet, people buy them; some people have that kind of money. Picking up the
receiver again he said harshly, "Give me an outside line, Miss Marsten. And don't listen in on
the conversation; it's confidential." He glared at her.
"Yes, sir," Miss Marsten said. "Go ahead and dial." She then cut herself out of the circuit,
leaving him to face the outside world.
He dialed Ч by memory Ч the number of the false-animal shop at which he had gotten his
ersatz sheep. On the small vidscreen a man dressed like a vet appeared. "Dr. McRae," the
man declared.