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

тАЬIтАЩm not sure. Just be myself, I suppose.тАЭ
тАЬAnd what, exactly, is that?тАЭ
тАЬAsk the people who are always telling me. They seem to know. IтАЩm still trying to find out.тАЭ
тАЬHave you talked it over with Muriel?тАЭ
 тАЬShe thinks I should do my own thing in my own wayтАФtry to find myself again.тАЭ
тАЬShe sounds very supportive,тАЭ Sarah conceded.
тАЬIf thatтАЩs the right word. Lately sheтАЩs been dropping hints about as subtle as a tax demand that we ought to get
married.тАЭ
Sarah sat back at her desk and regarded him thoughtfully, as if the world had just shifted on its axis and presented
itself in a new perspective. тАЬYou know, Joe, that mightnтАЩt be such a bad idea,тАЭ she said at last. тАЬYouтАЩve been on the
program for nine years now. That kind of stabilizing influence could be just what you need. Then we could let the
two of you find a place of your own independently. I canтАЩt think of a better road back to complete normality than
that.тАЭ

Muriel and Joe married early the following year. However, when they had talked about individualism and being
himself, Muriel thought he was describing his determination to pursue a career vigorously within the corporation.
When he quit, explaining that what heтАЩd meant was that he was going to chuck all of it, and announced that heтАЩd
taken a job as a checkout clerk at a discount store, it put a different complexion on things.
And, predictably, life continued on a downhill course from there. . . .
Chapter One

Few things, Corrigan thought irritably as he lay washed up on the pebbly shore of wakefulness from the warm,
carefree ocean of sleep, could be more maddening first thing in the morning than a chatty house-computerтАФ
especially one afflicted with the kind of advanced neurosis that he usually associated with swooning aunts or
psychiatric rehabilitation counselors.
тАЬItтАЩs almost nine oтАЩclock, Joe,тАЭ it babbled again in the fussing English accent that projected MurielтАЩs conception
of professional conscientiousness with a touch of social style. тАЬAs a rule, this is your absolute latest for getting up on
a Saturday.тАЭ
Corrigan thought that it sounded gay. He pictured it as lean and limp-wristed, with a receding hairline, mincing
about the room and throwing its hands up in agitation.
тАЬOh. . . . Hmm.тАЭ Corrigan yawned, stretched, and opened his eyes to the homey disarray of the apartmentтАЩs
bedroom. тАЬIs it Saturday?тАЭ
тАЬWell, of course it is, Joe. Why would I have said so if it werenтАЩt?тАЭ
Horace. What kind of a woman gave the computer a name like Horace? Corrigan allowed wakefulness to perco-
late through his body gradually. She had gotten the name, and its emulated persona, from Horace Greal, the equally
insufferable confidant and financial adviser to the playgirl-adventuress star of the series Fast-Lane Lady, which
depicted high society, fast sex, and mega-money in a bright-lights, big-city setting. Muriel, apparently like most
people these days, was able to relate to such roles totally, elevating experience by dissolving the barriers between
fantasy and actuality, and letting тАЬisтАЭ merge effortlessly into тАЬcould be.тАЭ Corrigan couldnтАЩt. The two categories
remained obstinately unfused in his mind. That, he was told, constituted the principal cause of the inner alienation,
insecurity, and resentments that the experts assured him he felt. The only thing wrong was, he didnтАЩt.
Saturday. That meant that he wasnтАЩt due at work until the evening. He rolled over and contemplated the ceiling.
As he began thinking what needed doing today, a disharmony of clashing chords tied together by an ungainly,
clickety-clack rhythm started up from the apartmentтАЩs sound system. MurielтАЩs kind of music. He wondered if the
choice presaged the role that she had decided to adopt for herself today. Would it be luminescent, green spiked hair,
purple jumpsuit, and тАЬAstra, Queen of the MountainsтАЭ (who also promoted Vaylon cosmetics and the Salon Faubert
fashion styles), or imitation combat fatigues, calf boots, and . . . And then the last shreds of sleep fell away from his
mind, and he remembered.
He rolled sideways and looked across the room. MurielтАЩs bed was empty, unslept in. Yes, of course: she was away
for the weekend, gone to see her crazy sister in Philadelphia. That brightened up the prospects for the day consider-