"Laura Anne Gilman - Staying Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gilman Laura Anne)

Stung, his co-worker glared at him, shook his hand out unobtrusively, as though to get feeling back into a
sleeping limb, and counted to three under his breath, just barely loud enough to hear. On three, they
heaved, and with a seemingly effortless movement and a pair of grunts that destroyed that illusion, the
stone settled into its new home.

"That's strange. Wonder if it's been hollowed out? I thought marble that size would be heavier."

"Don't complain, man, don't complain! And for God's sake, don't ask," the younger man begged, his eye
closed against the sweat that was rolling off his forehead. "We on the mark?"

The stone was square on its base, with a full three feet between it and the walls on two sides; room
enough for a person to walk around it, should they so desire.

"Yep," the other workman replied. "Perfect, as always." It was as close to a compliment as they would
get from anyone. They were hired via the company's Web site, informed of the details by e-mail, paid by
wire transfer, and never knew what any of it was all about. And they liked it that way. Some folk you just
didn't want to know any more about than you had to.

Their work completed, the two rolled up the quilted pad and tossed it onto the trolley, pushing it out
ahead of them as they left. They didn't look again at the object they had delivered, nor did they pause to
consider the other two objects already in place.

No one waited at the door to show them out; they had been given their instructions before arrival, when
they were assigned the job. They would walk down the bland, security-camera-lined hallway they had
entered through, down a flight of stairs, and follow a row of lights through a basement maze that would
deposit them through a four-inch-thick metal door in a ten-foot-high wall that ran along an unpaved
country road. A livery car with darkly-tinted windows waited there to take them back to the city, where
they would be dropped off without once having seen another person.

Their employer wanted his privacy. They were paid well enough not to wonder why. And the legalities of
what they had done never entered their minds at all.

When the last echoes of the workmen's feet had faded into silence once again, silence reclaimed the
building. In another wing, a door opened, and footsteps sounded, walking calmly, with no apparent haste
or urgency, the owner of all within those walls. Occasionally the walker would pause to admire a
painting, or caress a sculpture, but for the most part the priceless objects were accorded no more
attention than the carpet underfoot, or the ceilings above.

Eventually, the door into the white room was pushed open, and the owner of the house entered, walking
with those same unhurried strides to the corner holding the newly-installed fixture. He paused in front of
it, cataloguing every detail and comparing it to his expectations.

"You're not much to look at, are you?"

The slab of stone didn't respond to the voice.

"But they do say, you can't judge something by its looks. It's not what's on the outside that counts, after
all, but the inside. Isn't that right?"