"Rhys Hughes - The Singularity Spectres" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hughes Rhys)

The Singularity Spectres
by
Rhys Hughes

The centre of the planet can be accessed through the underground station at Finsbury Park. It's just a
question of finding the right escalator. I made the journey last year with the man who discovered the route. He
was a notorious rogue who needed the support of a reliable witness to verify his claim. I went along on
impulse; it was a typically drab morning when he entered my office and I was desperate for a change of
scenery. To add to this, my wife had kept me up the previous night with a lengthy tirade on how I had turned
into a bore. Having promised to correct the fault, I welcomed my visitor with uncharacteristic zeal. He took the
offered seat and accepted one of my cigars.

Before introducing him, allow me to say a few words about myself. I am Professor Cherlomsky, the
Applied Eschatologist. My work involves the practical study of ghosts, wraiths, lemures and other forms of
afterlife manifestation. I'm barely tolerated by the college authorities, who keep me securely out of view in one
of the condemned buildings, together with the Sociology Department. Here, among the rubble and cobwebs, I
maintain my equipment, the etheric-engyscopes and spirit-levels. Occasionally the Dean comes to belittle
my achievements, which are admittedly thin on the ground -- and thinner below it.

But to return to my guest: he smoothed his fringe and stretched his limbs, completely at ease in my
cluttered surroundings. I enquired, "And what can I do for you, Mr...?"

"Zimara." He blew a smoke-ring which settled over his skull like an unwashed halo. "Mark Anthony
Zimara. Actually it's more a case of what I can do for you. Are you familiar with the hollow world theory? It's
been largely discredited by geologists but it's about to enjoy a revival. I'm giving you the chance to be
involved. A terrific opportunity, Professor! You won't regret trusting me."

I was suitably receptive. "I'm charmed, but my views on rocks stray toward the conventional. Besides, in
my field, the downward direction is regarded with some suspicion."

He lunged with his cigar, stubbing my satire. "It's not the mineral aspects of my proposal that matter. I
know you've had problems trying to prove the existence of sprites in amber, but I have the solution to your
difficulty. The heart of the world is rife with phantoms; I've seen them with my own eyes. If you permit me to
guide you there, you'll be assured of fame. You'll win a Nobel Prize -- I can't say in which category. Maybe
they'll fashion a new one? Come now, Professor, this is the break you've been praying for. Real spooks!"

I pondered. Although the man was plainly a fool or liar, any chance to humiliate the Dean had to be
considered seriously. I recalled my wife scolding me for my unadventurous lifestyle. How long before she ran
away with a more dashing academic? And my career was in the doldrums. Despite a decade of thorough
research, not a single goosepimple of proof for the reality of ghosts had come my way. In one of my cabinets
languished jars of ectoplasm, a tooth from a walking skeleton and a link from a rattling chain: the sole relics
of my endeavours. All were vulgar forgeries. What I required was something more, or preferably less, solid --
stuffed souls and anthropomorphic bedsheets. I sighed. "Supposing I accept your proposal? How will we
find a way through the Earth's crust? I'm not handy with a pick and shovel. Indeed, I have a horror of
gardening."

He tapped his nose. "That's the beauty of it. There's no digging to be done. Listen, I won't say anything
more. Just come with me and take a look for yourself. What have you got to lose? You won't have to sign any
documents. I'm an honest cad!"