"John Morressy - Rimrunners Home" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morressy John)

"You could stay down and work for the program."

"Surrounded by lobies who think I'm crazy? I'll go up, Senator."

"I'm sorry," Dalton said. She rose and left the lodge. A few minutes after her
departure, Vanderhorst, in a hushed voice, said, "Thanks." He drew himself up
out of the chair and poured himself a drink.

Shortly after one o'clock, bottle in hand, he made his way to the communications
panel and punched in Korry and Jemma's personal code. The signal rang softly on,
and he waited, and at last the screen glowed to life to reveal a sleepy Jemma.

"Van! Are you all right?"

"You told Dalton. Let us think we're being left alone, but you're always
looking, keeping an eye on us so we don't screw up your handout."

"Tell us where you are, Van, so we can help you."

"I don't want your help. I don't want anything to do with any of you."

Jemma's voice was low, taut with controlled urgency. "Van, tell us where you
are. We'll come to you, and we'll work this out together. It's better that way.
Trust us, Van."

Vanderhorst rubbed his eyes. When he looked again, he glimpsed Jemma's gesture
to someone beyond screen range. At the sight of him, she reached out imploringly
and said, "Please tell us, Van. Let us help you."

Without a word, he drew back his arm and with all his strength flung the bottle
squarely into the screened image. He stood for a few minutes before the
shattered panel, feeling a great satisfaction, then he turned and quickly
gathered his few possessions.

Except for the pale green carpet, everything in the room was a cool restful
blue. The colors, Vanderhorst had been told by smiling, earnest social
assistants, would help him relax. He did not relax. They looked at him ruefully,
spoke to him gently, and never stopped smiling.
On his second morning in the Assistance House, he began to wonder how long he
would be staying. Unfailing smiles and bland words did not deceive him. He was a
prisoner and he knew it. If alienation and violence were crimes in 2087, then he
was a criminal. If they were illnesses, he was a patient. Whatever they chose to
consider him, he was not free.

For the moment, he was content to leave the next move to his keepers. His lip
was cut and swollen, and there was a painful lump on his temple. Whatever the
authorities might think, there were still a few violent people left out there.
His knuckles were heavily coated with curafilm, and he found it awkward and
uncomfortable to flex his fingers. His memory was jumbled. He had drunk a great
deal, roared against the human race, struck out at everyone who came within