"Grant Naylor - Red Dwarf" - читать интересную книгу автора (Naylor Grant)

a new life without him.
When he'd first signed up, they both understood he would be away from Earth
for months on end, and, obviously, things could happen; mining in space was
dangerous. That was why the money was so good.
If anything happens to me,' he'd always said, I don't want you to sit around,
mourning.' Protests. 'I want you to meet someone else, someone terrific, and
start a new life without me.'
What a stupid, fat, dumb thing to say! The kind of stupid, fat, dumb thing
only a living person would ever dream of saying.
Because that's what she was going to do now.
Start a new life - without him.
Fine, if he was dead dead. If he'd just taken delivery of his shiny new
ephemeral body and was wafting around in the ether on the next plane of
existence - fine.
Even if there was no life after death, and he totally ceased to be - then
again, absolutely fine.
But this was different. He was dead, but he was still here. His personality
had been stored on disc, and the computer had reproduced him down to the
tiniest detail; down to his innermost thoughts.
This wasn't the deal. He wanted her to start a new life when he was gone, not
while he was still here. But of course, that's what she'd do. That's what she
had to do. You can't stay married to a dead man. So even though she loved him
dearly, she would, eventually, have to start looking for someone else.
And... she would sleep with him.
She would go to bed with him. And, hell, she would probably enjoy it.
Even though she still loved Saunders.
She would, wouldn't she? She would meet Mr Terrific and have a physical
relationship.
Probably in his bed.
His bed! Their marital bed. His bed!
Probably using the three condoms he knew for a fact he had left in the bedside
cabinet.
The ones he'd bought for a joke.
The flavoured ones.
His mind ran amok, picturing a line of lovers standing, strawberry-sheathed,
outside his wife's bedroom.
'No!' screamed Saunders, involuntarily. 'Nooooooo!'
Hologramatic tears of rage and frustration welled up in Saunders' eyes and
rolled hologramatically down his cheeks. He smashed his fist down onto the
table.
The fist passed soundlessly through the grey metal desk top, and crashed with
astonishing force into his testicles.
As he lay in a foetal position, squealing on the floor, he wished he were
dead. Then he remembered he already was.
Saunders didn't know it but, twelve miles below, on the Saturnian moon of
Mimas, Flight Co-ordinator George McIntyre was about to solve all his
problems.


TWO