"Andrew J. Offutt - Gone With the Gods" - читать интересную книгу автора (Offutt Andrew J)

It was also bought by nearly everyone in the United States. And overseas. It was also Ventnor
making the money and the appearances on Today and Carson and Cavett, not me. Then there was the
big television special; one hour long and a full page in TV Guide. MGM bought movie rights and
immediately contacted and contracted Charlton Heston to play the part of the man from outer space the
book postulated had visited Earth, so long ago.
"Mark, you slimy bastard, you're RICH!" I roared at the fat, hawk-nosed, bald man across his own
deskтАФbrand new, brushed walnut. "You're rich! You're famousтАФdear god, why NOT share some of it
with meтАФit was all MY work!"
Ventnor sighed exaggeratedly. "But my idea, Harve baby. And, as I pointed out to an equally
screechy Ben Corrick just yesterday, my money financed the project. Come, look at it this way. I hired
him to make it possible; I hired you to plant the evidence and write the book. And you were both paid."



"HIRED! You . . . you damned Jay Gould, I'llтАФ"
He lurched forward in his swivel chair, so new it was squeakless. "Don't, Harvey. Whatever it is,
don't. Try suing or making wild claims and I'll smash you. We have a contract. You've received the
highest advance on a book you ever saw in your life!"
I tried not to splutter; my face felt as if I had a fever of 105. "ADVANCE! You mean PRICE! And
that book's made MILLIONS!"
He shook his head. "Oh Harvey, Harvey. Price, then. But why quibble over terminologyтАФwhen did
you ever do a book that earned royalties? Come on; this is more than you ever made on a book in your
life!"
OK, there was nothing to be done, aside from murder. I tried to get hold of Ben for some mutual
commiseration; he linked me with Mark and wouldn't even talk with me. He did own twenty-seven
percent of Transtempus, Inc. but unfortunately T.I. didn't publish the book. Morpheus Books, Inc., did.
Transtempus had turned no profit ...
I sat down and started whanging out a science-fiction novel, since I didn't dare do an expos├й. It was
about this guy who went back in time and planted all the evidence in the de Vrees bookтАФand it became
obvious very quickly that no one wanted to publish it. So I thought, and thought, and my money
dwindled. Then I hit upon a unique plan of vengeance, and practically cackled, in my laughter.
It took awhile, and it took some more of my dwindling assets. But I regained the veedub, and I went
back again. On a mission of vengeance. Mark Ventnor would be the biggest laughingstock on the planet.
This time I labored long and hard over an enormous statue, a crude stone monstrosity that was a
caricature of big-nosed, bald, Mark Ventnor of the basilisk eyes. More hard work: I placed it on a
platform on the coast of an unpopulated island, facing inland. Then I hauled Polynesian settlers to that
island, trio after trio, trip after trip. You can only get so many people into a VW. And I showed them
how to catch fish more rapidly, so they wouldn't have to sweat food-gathering. Thus they'd have plenty
of time, and I started them to work: creating duplications of my statue. More Mark Ventnor caricatures.
It required only a few hours, subjective time, to pop back on five occasions, thus throwing the fear
of, ah, Moss into them and insuring that they would continue the project.
The next trick was to keep the veedub. I had liberated it from where Mark had it stashed in
Manhattan. Now I set the controls carefully for two months after the date of my departure, so I'd
materialize elsewhere. Near, as a matter of fact, Chinchilla, Pee-Ay. Then, chuckling at my colossal joke
on that bastard Ventnor, I consulted the records: encyclopedias and so on. Yep! There were now many
such stone busts on the Isle de Pascua: Easter Island.
So much for Mr. Marcus D. Ventnor!
Then I saw the copy of Newstime on the newsstand. It featured a story on the new book by Andre
de Vrees, all about the Easter Island phenomena. And there was a picture of the man who must have
churned out that second book, the bastard: Mark Ventnor. The miserable mother had used part of the