"William Morrison - Date of Publication 2083 AD" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morrison William)

important thing was that here, before her, were a thousand pages of useful but dangerous
informationтАФhow dangerous she could only guess. So far James had done little actual harm but let his
resentment be aroused, let him want really to revenge himself on some one, and he'd be the most
dangerous human being alive.
Her eyes ran down the list of chapters again. They seemed endless. Hypnotism by
GestureтАФHypnotism by Mechanical MeansтАФHypnotism by AutosuggestionтАФPosthypnotic
Suggestion тАФ and finally a whole series on Erasure.
ErasureтАФthat sounded interesting. What were you supposed to erase? There were different
subheadingsтАФErasure of Susceptibility Erasure of Specific DirectivesтАФGeneral Erasure.
She sat down and read with a concentration she had not shown in years.
Two hours later she thought she knew what to do. First she did what the book said was necessary to
protect herself. Then she said, "James, look at me."
James looked and she began to erase. An hour later she decided he was safe and untied him.
Then she sat down and wrote Barbara a letter. She knew that after Barbara had read it through a
few times, the first time in bewilderment, the second and third times with a feeling of obedience, she
would follow her mother's instructions perfectly and end by burning the letter, just as she had burned the
one James sent her.
Of those most directly affected that left only Bill. Reardon? He was all right, she thought. James had
victimized him after reading no more than the first chapter or two. He hadn't yet read enough then to be
really dangerous. But Bill ...
She had a little talk with her husband directly after supper. It was short, it was simple, it was sweet.
When she had ended Bill remembered nothing and felt fine. He was fine.
There was one more chapter to apply, the one on Autoerasure. That required careful planning,
carefully thought-out suggestions. When she had completed all she had ordered herself to do she threw
the book into the furnace and watched it burn, stirring the fragments to make sure that it was completely
consumed.
All was forgotten. All was fine. Nothing had ever happened.
A few weeks later there came a postcard. "Dear Madam," it read. "The book, The Perfect
Hostess, by Wilhelmina Hoskins, which is charged to your card, is now two weeks overdue. Please
return it at your earliest convenience. There is a charge of one cent for each day overdue."
What on earth were they talking about? Carrie wondered vaguely. She hadn't been to the library in
months. "James," she called, "Did you ever get me a library book called The Perfect Hostess?"
"Gosh, no, Mom," said James.