"Brian Lumley - Necroscope 1 - Necroscope" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lumley Brian)

them in the way a tree supports a small creeper, but their roots were wholly separate. And
similarly, because they were a very tiny parasite, the vast bulk of the tree was totally unaware of
their presence. As is the case with so many experimental, unproven projects, their funding was of a
low priority, came out of 'petty cash'. The upkeep of their offices was therefore far and away top of
the list where costing was concerned, but that was unavoidable.

For unlike other projects, the nature of this one demanded a very low profile indeed. Its presence
in the event of discovery would be an acute embarrassment; it would doubtless be viewed with
suspicion and scorn, if not disbelief and downright hostility; it would be seen as a totally unnecessary
expenditure, a needless burden on the taxpayer, a complete waste of public money. Nor would
there be any justifying it; the benefits or fruits of its being remained as yet entirely conjectural and
the mildest 'frost' would certainly put paid to them. The same principles apply to any such
organisation or service: it must (a) be seen to be effective while paradoxically (b) maintaining its cloak
of invisibility, its anonymity. Ergo: to expose such a body is to kill it. . .
Another way to dispose of this sort of hybrid would be, quite simply, to tear up its roots and deny
it had ever existed. Or wait for them to be torn up by some outside agency and then fail to replant
them.
Three days ago there had occurred just such an uprooting. A major tendril had been broken, whose
principal function it had been to bind the vine to its host body, providing stability. In short, the
head of the branch had suffered a heart attack and died on his way home. He had had a bad heart
for years, so that wasn't strange in itself - but then something else had happened to throw a different
light on the matter, something Alec Kyle didn't want to dwell on right now.
For now, on this Monday morning of an especially chilly January, Kyle, the next in line, must
assess the damage and feasibility of repairs; and if such repairs were at all possible, then he must make his
first groping attempt to pull the thing back together. The project's foundations had always been a little
shaky but now, lacking positive direction and leadership, the whole show might well fall apart in very
short order. Like a sand-castle when the tide comes in.
These were the thoughts in Kyle's head as he stepped from the slushy pavement through swinging
glass doors into a tiny foyer, shook damp snow from his overcoat and turned the collar down. It was
not that he personally had any doubt as to the validity of the project - in fact the opposite applied:
Kyle believed the branch to be all-important - but how to defend his position in the face of all that
scepticism from above? Scepticism, yes. Old Gormley had been able to pull it off, with all his
friends in high places, his 'old school tie' image, his authority and enthusiasm and sheer get-up-
and-go, but men such as Keenan Gormley were few and far between. Even fewer now.
And this afternoon at four o'clock Kyle would be called upon to defend his position, the validity of
his branch's being, its very existence. Oh, they'd been quick off the mark, right enough, and Kyle
believed he knew why. This was it, the crunch. With nothing to show for five years' work, the
project was to be terminated. No matter what arguments he produced, he'd be shouted down. Old
Gormley had been able to shout louder than all of them put together; he'd had the clout, the back-up;
but Alec Kyle - who was he? In his mind's eye, he could picture the afternoon's inquisition right now:
'Yes, Minister, I'm Alec Kyle. My function in the Branch? Well, apart from being second in
command to Sir Keenan, I was - I mean I am - er, that is to say, I prognosticate . . . I beg your
pardon? Ah, it means I foresee the future, sir. Er, no, I have to admit that I probably couldn't
give you the winner of the 3:30 at Goodwood tomorrow. My awareness generally isn't that specific.
But -'
But it would be hopeless! A hundred years ago they wouldn't accept hypnotism. Only fifteen
years ago they were still laughing at acupuncture. So how could Kyle hope to convince them in
respect of the branch and its work? And yet, on the other hand, coming through all the
despondency and sense of personal loss, there was this other thing. Kyle knew it for what it was: his
'talent', telling him that all was not lost, that somehow he would convince them, that the branch would