"Keith Laumer - The World Shuffler" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laumer Keith)

A tall figure appeared briefly at the end of the path: Count Alain, hurrying somewhere.
Lafayette called after him, but when he reached the cross path, there was no one in sight.
He turned back, feeling definitely depressed now, he admitted. For the first time in three
years he had the same old feeling he used to have back in Colby Corners, when he'd go
for his evening walk around the block and watch the yellow twilight fade to darkness,
thinking of all the things he'd do, someday . ..
Lafayette straightened his back. He was acting like a nitwit. He had the best deal in the
worldтАФin any worldтАФand all he had to do was enjoy it. Why rock the boat? Dinner was
in an hour. He'd go, as he always went, listen to the conversation he always listened to.
But he didn't feel like going back inside-not just yet; he wasn't quite up to making bright
conversation. He'd sit on his favorite marble bench for a while and read a page or two of
the current issue of Popular Thaumaturgy, and think himself into a proper mood for the
gay banter at the dinner table. He'd make it a point to tell Daphne how stunning she
looked in her latest Artesian mode, and after dinner they'd steal away to their apartment,
and . . .
Now that he thought of it, it had been quite a while since he had whispered an
abandoned suggestion in Daphne's cute little ear. He'd been so busy with his wine, and
holding up his end of the conversation, and of course Daphne was quite content to sit
with the other court wives, discussing their tatting or whatever it was the ladies discussed,
while the gentlemen quaffed brandy and smoked cigars and exchanged racy anecdotes.
Lafayette paused, frowning at the azalea bush before him. He'd been so immersed in
his thinking that he'd walked right past his favorite corner of the gardenтАФthe one with
the bench placed just so beside the flowering arbutus, and the soft tinkle of the fountain,
and the deep shade of the big elms, and the view of smooth lawn sloping down to the
poplars beside the lake. . . .
He walked back, found himself at the corner where he had glimpsed Alain. Funny.
He'd passed it again. He looked both ways along the empty paths, then shook his head
and set off determinedly. Ten paces brought him to the wide walk leading back to the
terrace.
"I'm losing my grip," he muttered. "I know it's the first turn past the fountain . . ."' He
halted, staring uncertainly across the strangely narrowed lawn. Fountain? There was no
fountain in sight; just the graveled path, littered with dead leaves, and the trees, and the
brick wall at the other end. But the brick wall should be farther back, past several turns
and a duck pond. Lafayette hurried on, around a turn. . . . The path ran out, became a
foot-worn strip of dirt across untended weeds. He turnedтАФand encountered a solid wall
of shrubbery. Sharp twigs raked at him, ripping at his lace cuffs as he fought his way
through, to emerge in a small patch of dandelion-pocked grass. There were no flowerbeds
in sight. No benches. No paths. The palace had a desolate, unoccupied look, looming
against a suddenly dull sky. The shuttered windows were like blind eyes; dead leaves
blew across the terrace.
O'Leary went quickly up the terrace steps, through the French doors into the mirrored
hall. Dust lay thick on the marble floor. His feet echoed as he crossed quickly to the
guardroom, threw open the door. Except for an odor of stale bedding and mildew, it was
empty.
Back in the corridor, Lafayette shouted. There was no answer. He tried doors, looked
into empty rooms. He paused, cocked his head, listened, heard only the far-away twitter
of a birdcall.
"This is ridiculous," he heard himself saying aloud, fighting down a sinking feeling in
the stomach. "Everyone can't have just picked up and sneaked out without even telling
me. Daphne would never do a thing like that. . . ."