"James P. Hogan - Realtime Interrupt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hogan James P)

had much of that deep kind of stuff that they talk about, either way. I never could figure out that world you live in,
someplace inside your head. All I know is that IтАЩm in this one out here, and youтАЩre never gonna be part of it. . . . But
then, some of that has to be my fault too, for hitchinтАЩ up with somebody who I knew hadnтАЩt finished havinтАЩ his head
anтАЩ all that straightened out in the first place. Sorry I couldna been more help in fixinтАЩ that like we hopedтАФbut them
shrinks did tell us up front that it was a long way from a sure thing.
тАЬHell, Joe, no, IтАЩm not the one who should have to be sorry about anything. I tried hard, dammit, you know that?
But do you know how hard it can be tryinтАЩ to make it with a guy whoтАЩsтАФI gotta say this, you understand me, JoeтАФ
like, a failure. As in socially, for instance. ThereтАЩs things that people aim at in life, things they try to be that make
everyone feel together, like theyтАЩre part of the same planet. And then thereтАЩs that job of yours, where you donтАЩt care
about being a success or have any ambition to try something better. But none oтАЩ that ever meant anythinтАЩ to you, Joe.
. . . Hell, you probably donтАЩt even know what IтАЩm talkinтАЩ about.тАЭ
There was a heavy sigh. тАЬWell, this isnтАЩt really coming out the way I wanted it to, so IтАЩll wrap it up. DonтАЩt try
getting in touch or anythinтАЩ like that, because there really isnтАЩt any point. I talked to a lawyer, and heтАЩll be in touch
soon. . . . I guess thatтАЩs it. This seemed the best way to break itтАФwithout too much talkinтАЩ anтАЩ stuff. We never did
talk the same language, anyhow. So . . . тАЩBye. I hope things work out.тАЭ
By this time Corrigan had finished dressing. He checked the other closet, then the vanity. There were odds and
ends, cheaper jewelry, clothes that she had grown tired of. The things that she valued more were mostly goneтАФfar
more than she would have taken for a weekend in Philadelphia.
But he had never doubted what he would find. His movements were automatic, filling the void while the meaning
sank in. His feelings about it had not yet emerged from beneath a curious detachment. Yes, there was the sudden sur-
prise. But along with it . . . not bitterness, nor anger at rejection, butтАФeven now, poking enticingly out of hiding like
an ankle glimpsed below heavy Victorian foldsтАФan intensified version of the relief that he had experienced on
awakening.
тАЬWell, IтАЩll be damned,тАЭ he said finally in a tone that could have meant anything.
 Horace, after deciding that a short, respectful silence was appropriate, had evidently checked up on how humans
were likely to react in situations like this. тАЬDonтАЩt do anything rash, Joe,тАЭ it cautioned. тАЬI understand that these things
can be a strain. Breaking the place up would only make everything worse in the long run.тАЭ
тАЬThanks, but I have no intention of doing anything of the kind,тАЭ Corrigan told it.
тАЬDo you want to sit down for a minute?тАЭ
тАЬWhat for?тАЭ
тАЬThere are tranquilizers in the cabinet. Or shall I mix you a drink, even if it is early? If you like, I could get Sarah
Bewley on the line.тАЭ Then, via its optical sensors around the room, the machine discerned that Corrigan wasnтАЩt
behaving in any of the ways categorized in its data retrievals. тАЬDonтАЩt you feel rage, remorse, guilt, confusion?тАЭ it
inquired. тАЬAn impulse to get even, to have revenge? Compulsions to commit physical assault or battery? Homicide?тАЭ
тАЬI feel fine.тАЭ
But of course, Horace realized: it had been presuming in terms of normal humans. With a deviant like Corrigan,
anything was possible. тАЬWhat are you going to do?тАЭ it asked warily.
Corrigan moved back to his own closet and took out a pastel-blue wool-acrylic jacket. тАЬI think IтАЩll go for a walk
and eat out,тАЭ he replied. тАЬSo donтАЩt worry about breakfast.тАЭ
тАЬBut . . . thatтАЩs it?тАЭ Simulated or not, Horace sounded genuinely befuddledтАФeven, perhaps, with a hint of mild
disappointment.
тАЬReality rejection,тАЭ Corrigan explained, slipping on the jacket as he went through the doorway to the hall. тАЬLook
it up with the experts, Horace. IтАЩm sure theyтАЩll tell you all about it.
On the table by the front door was a figurine of a grinning Irish leprechaun in a battered hat, clutching a curly-
stemmed pipe. It had been a wedding present from CorriganтАЩs marriage to his first wife, EvelynтАФlong ago now,
before his breakdown.
тАЬAnd the top oтАЩ the morninтАЩ to yerself, too, Mick,тАЭ he said as he let himself out the door.
The figurine had been among the personal things kept for him after the house that he and Evelyn had shared was
sold. Apart from being a reminder of home, it had always held a strange fascination that Corrigan had never really
understood.