"Christopher Priest - The Discharge" - читать интересную книгу автора (Priest Christopher)

of the men was between me and the short flight of steps that led down. I feinted, moving towards the
scrap of paper, as if to pick it up. Then I spun around, dashed, collided with the man's leg. He swung the
baton viciously at me. I took an intense bolt of electricity that dropped me. I skidded across the floor.

My leg was paralysed. I scrambled to get up, rolled on my side, tried again.

Seeing I was immobilized, one of the black-caps moved across to the painting I had been absorbed in
when they arrived. He leaned over it, prodded at its surface with the end of his baton.

I managed to raise myself on my good leg, half-crouching.

Where the end of his baton touched the tactilist pigment, a spout of fierce white flame suddenly
appeared, with a sharp crackling sound. Smoke rose copiously as the flame died. The man made a
sardonic laughing sound and did it again.
The others went over to see what he was doing. They too pressed the live ends of their batons against
the board, producing spurts of bright flame and much more smoke. They guffawed.

One of them crouched, leaned forward to see what it was that was burning. He brushed his bare
fingertips across an undamaged portion of the pigment.

My terror and trauma reached out to him through the paint. The ultrasonics bonded him to the board.

He became still, four of his fingers resting on the pigment. For a moment he stayed in position, looking
almost reflective as he squatted there with his hand extended. Then he tipped slowly forward. He tried to
balance himself with his other hand, but that too landed on the pigments. As he fell across the painting, his
body started jerking in spasms. Both his hands were bonded to the board. His baton had rolled away.
Smoke still poured from the smouldering scars.

His three companions moved across to find out what was wrong with him. They kept an eye on me as
they did so. I was trying to lever myself upright, putting all my weight on the leg that still had feeling,
letting the other dangle lightly against the floor. Sensation was returning quickly, but the pain was
unspeakable.

I watched the three black-caps, dreading the menace they exuded. It could only be a matter of time
before they did to me whatever it was they had come to do. They were grappling with the man who had
fallen, trying to pull him away from the pigments. My breath was making a light screeching noise as I
struggled for balance. I thought I had known fear before, but there was nothing in my remembered
experience that equalled this.

I managed a step. They ignored me. They were still trying to lift the man away from my painting. The
smoke swirled from the damage they had caused with their batons.

One of them shouted at me to help them.

"What is this stuff? What's holding him against that board?"

The man started screaming as the smouldering pigments reached his hands, but still he could not release
himself. His pain, my agonies, contorted his body.

"His dreams!" I cried boldly. "He is captive of his own vile dreams!"