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

His face creased with annoyance. "It was an unfair trial. I decline to furnish the details. Just confirm
whether you're willing to follow me to the centre. I need to know."

The vision of my wife returned to harangue me. I snorted and raised a foot to place it on the first step. "I'm
ready!" I announced. My guide blanched and snatched my elbow.

"Not yet! You'll die if you go unprepared. The escalator is falling at the rate of four miles per hour. That's
one thousand hours, or nearly forty-two days, to reach the heart of the world. Even if you walk as you drop,
the journey will take almost four weeks. We'll need food and water and a pack of playing cards."

I stroked my chin. "You're right. Also I want to take my scientific equipment to conduct tests. If there
really are spectres down there it's vital I measure and categorise them. The professional journals insist on
trivia. For example, are the physical differences between malevolent and benign spirits mostly sartorial or
ectoplasmic? Are the discrepancies in haunting aptitude manifested in facial characteristics? If so, they must
be plotted on graph-paper! Do souls moan in minor keys? Are fat phantoms jolly frightening or merely jolly?"
 Zimara seemed uncomfortable. "I said there were many wraiths at the core, but I don't know if you'll be
able to study them individually. The ones I saw were compacted together."

I frowned, but he was unwilling to elaborate. Reluctantly I allowed him to lead me through the tunnels to
the surface. We arranged to gather supplies and meet at the station the following day. I watched as he took
off down Blackstock Road, his confident gait reminiscent of a salesman's amble in the aftermath of a swindle.
I did not trust him, but I had less faith in my other confr├иres. Besides, my telescope was a sober attestant
and I required no more evidence to convince me something astonishing lay below Finsbury Park, even if not a
ball of compacted ghosts. I reflected on this last statement, but could find nothing compelling in the notion. It
was too unexpected a scenario.

On my way to the college, I stopped at a tailor's to purchase seven or eight large suitcases. As I was
coming out, staggering under the mass of leather cuboids, I narrowly avoided a collision with my Dean, who
was also hurrying down Isledon Road, under the aegis of a gigantic umbrella. His moustache curled in
salutation.

"My dear Professor Cherlomsky! You are going on a trip somewhere, I presume? How delightful! To
escape your English weather? Celui qui veut, peut! But some of us have to work."

I controlled my temper. "I'm preparing for a research project, Dean Nutt. I do not take idle holidays."
"Mais oui! I have never doubted your dedication, Professor. But you have a knack for combining business with
pleasure. That excursion to the Caribbean to investigate ghosts trapped in the melody of a calypso song?
Some of the staff reckoned it an extravagance. ├А vieux comptes nouvelles disputes! Now our funds are tight."

"This is a self-financed expedition, Dean Nutt. I don't require the support of my enemies. At long last, I'm
going to prove you all wrong. I expect to confirm the subsistence of large-scale phantasmagoric activity before
the climax of the semester."

"There are no ghosts, mon enfant." His smile was very thin. "But my kind regards go with you in your
folly." With a bow stiffer than a stale baguette, he moved onwards, mumbling cryptically, "Certainly none on
the surface of this particular planet."

I gazed at his receding form with a grimace. His own researches had an air of mystery about them.
Despite the manifold administrative duties attendant upon his position, he preserved his links with the