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

"This will have to be approved by Hope management," said Bleeker carefully. "We've heard
complaints, you know, about the... ah... slow royalty payments to other American firms who have
designed plants for your country in the past."
Sasanov spread his hands expressively. "Vicious lies. Surely you trust the People's Republic?"
Bleeker coughed.
"This contract isn't much of a stake," objected Patrick. "That's between your government and the
Hope corporation, not between you and me."
"Readily remedied," smiled Sasanov. "What is the classic consideration in your English common law?
A peppercorn, isn't it? Well then, I offer the contract and a jug of vodka, to be sent direct to you here at
the lab, if I lose."
"Against the rules," said Bleeker. "Spiritous liquors can't be brought into the lab."
"Make it sweet cider," said Patrick.
"Certainly, sweet cider," said Sasanov. "The best in the world. Cider from your Winchester apples is a
poor thing in comparison."
Bleeker set his jaw. "All right, your stake is a contract and a jug of cider. What's our stake?"
"Our stake, Mr. Bleeker? I think Mr. Patrick suggested the wager. The matter is, therefore, between
him and me. And Mr. Patrick can readily provide his stake."
"Such as what," demanded Patrick.
"Your desk."
"My... desk?" repeated Patrick stupidly.
"You don't have to do this, Con," said Bleeker quietly.
"Well, I don't know..." As Patrick considered the matter, his throat began to contract. His desk was a
"rolltop," over a hundred years old, and one of the few remaining in the country that had never been used
by Abraham Lincoln. It had caught his eye when browsing through the junk shops of Washington, and its
entire panorama of possibilities opened up to him instantly. He bought it on the spot. He himself had
carefully removed the ancient peeling finish by dint of solvent, scraper, and sandpaper, and had then
slowly refinished it over a period of months. Finally he had moved it to his office at the lab. The
pigeonholes were semi-filled with rolled documents, bound with genuine red tape that his London patent
associates had found for him. He had patinated the papers with a light layer of dust recovered from his
vacuum cleaner. His intercom and dictating machine were installed in the side drawers, and a tiny
refrigerator in the lower left-hand cabinet. A kerosene reading lamp-- converted to fluorescent in the
Hope maintenance shop-- sat on the upper deck of the desk, and a brass cuspidor gleamed in the lower
right-hand cabinet. As a final touch, he had captured and imprisoned one small, bewildered spider, who,
after a shrug of its arachnid shoulders, had gallantly garlanded a few of the more remote pigeonholes with
sterile, dust-gathering strands.
For a time, Patrick's rolltop had been the talk of the lab; soon after its arrival dozens of people found it
suddenly necessary to confer with Patrick on all kinds of patent problems. And now, even after the fine
edge of novelty was gone, Hope people visiting from out of town still came in to see it. More importantly,
as Patrick now realized with a chill, Comrade Sasanov, after his introduction to the patent director on the
first day of his visit, had since dropped in to Patrick's office several times, for no apparent reason, and
had stared thoughtfully at the desk.
There was no comparison between his desk and a jug of cider.
Still, a man had to have faith. And he had faith in Pierre Celsus.
"It's a bet," said Patrick.
***


The three men pushed their way through the spectators surrounding Pierre Celsus and the silamine
setup.
Celsus, a slight nervous figure, largely hidden in an unlaundered lab coat, was evidently finishing up his