"Charles L. Harness - The Rose" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harness Charles L)

And all of this must comeтАФsoon; before her ballet premiere, certainly. The enigmatic skein of the future
would be unravelled to her evolving intellect even as it now was to Ruy Jacques'. She could find all the
answers she sought...Dream's end...the Nightingale's death song...The Rose. And she would find them
whether she wanted to or not.

She groaned uneasily.

At the sound, the man's eyelids seemed to tremble; his breathing slowed momentarily, then became
faster.

She considered this in perplexity. He was unconscious, certainly; yet he made definite responses to aural
stimuli. Possibly she had anaesthetized neither member of the hypothetical brain-pair, but had merely cut,
temporarily, their lines of intercommunication, just as one might temporarily disorganize the brain of a
laboratory animal by anaesthetizing the pons Varolii linking the two cranial hemispheres.

Of one thing she was sure: Ruy Jacques, unconscious, and temporarily mentally disintegrate, was not
going to conform to the behavior long standardized for other unconscious and disintegrate mammals.
Always one step beyond what she ever expected. Beyond man. Beyond genius.

She arose quietly and tiptoed the short distance to the bed.

When her lips were a few inches from the artist's right ear, she said softly: "What is your name?"

The prone figure stirred uneasily. His eyelids fluttered, but did not open. His wine-colored lips parted,
then shut, then opened again. His reply was a harsh, barely intelligible whisper: "Zhak."

"What are you doing?"

"Searching..."

"For what?"

"A red rose?"

"There are many red roses."

Again his somnolent, metallic whisper: "No, there is but one."

She suddenly realized that her own voice was becoming tense, shrill. She forced it back into a lower
pitch. "Think of that rose. Can you see it?"

"Yes...yes!"

She cried: "What is the rose?"

It seemed that the narrow walls of the room would clamor forever their outraged metallic modesty, if
something hadn't frightened away their pain. Ruy Jacques opened his eyes and struggled to rise on one
elbow.

On his sweating forehead was a deep frown. But his eyes were apparently focused on nothing in