"Robert Rankin - The Greatest Show Off Earth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

sent. And later he remonstrated with the bald postmaster, who swore blind that it had been
delivered. Voices had become raised and insults exchanged. And Raymond had found himself
barred from the village post office.
In fact, the manual had been delivered, but in error to the horrid new house with the
satellite dish. And the man who lived in that house hated Raymond, because Raymond had
once knocked a tennis ball through his greenhouse roof and then trampled down many prize
blooms whilst making good his escape from the three bad dogs after trying to retrieve it.
So the man in the horrid new house with the satellite dish had decided to keep Raymond's
manual and grow some vegetables on the bare patches of land where the flowers had got
trampled down.
So Raymond just dug for now. Often in his vest, and many times whistling loudly.
Habits which got right up the noses of the other allotment holders. And on this particular
warm spring evening, he was doing it all alone.
His fellow allotmenteers had tired quite early with the sound of his whistling and the
sight of his armpits, and repaired to The Jolly Gardeners, where whistling was prohibited and
singlets proscribed. Raymond was fashioning a hole in which to plant an apple tree. A Granny
Smith, or perhaps a Cox's Orange Pippin. He had plenty of time to make up his mind, as apple
trees are best planted in November.
His spade struck upon a light brown stone and Raymond stooped to pick it up. He
was examining the stone with some interest when his best friend Simon happened by.
Simon was slightly older than Raymond, but no wiser. He found favour in the eyes of the
local womenfolk and had worked, ever since he left school, for Mr Hilsavise the Gardener,
whom many claimed to be in league with the devil. Simon had dark hair, dark eyes and very
expensive dental work that he had saved up for.
'Evening, Ray,' said Simon, flashing his smile. 'Digging a hole?'
Raymond looked up from his digging. 'Good-evening, Simon.' said he. 'New hat?'
Simon who never wore one, even in winter, shook his head. I've been thinking about growing
a beard. But it's only in the ideas stage yet. What is that you hold in your hand?'
Raymond drew a spittley finger over his find. 'It is either a stone that longs to become
a potato, or a potato which has affected a most successful transformation into a stone.'
'Perhaps it is a fossilized potato.'
'Or a simulacrum.'
'Possibly so.' Simon made a mental note to look that one up when he got home. 'Did
you read that thing in the paper the other day?' he asked.
'No,' said Raymond. 'You must have me confused with somebody else.'
'It would appear', said Simon, 'that the Russians have drilled this hole.'
'No.' Raymond gave his head a shake, 'I dug this hole.'
'No.' Simon gave his head a shake also. 'Not the hole I'm talking about. This hole is
another hole entirely. In Siberia. Russian scientists drilled it to study the movement of
tectonic plates.' Simon paused in the hope that Ray would ask exactly what tectonic plates
might be. But he didn't, so Simon went on. 'Twenty-three miles down they drilled. Through
the solid bedrock. Then suddenly their drill broke through the roof of some kind of mighty
cavern. So they pulled it up and lowered down this special microphone on a very long lead.
And you'll never guess what they heard.'
Raymond leaned upon the handle of his spade which, since the arrival of Simon, had
done no digging whatsoever 'Was it the sound of millions of souls screaming in eternal
agony?' he enquired.
'That's what it said in the paper.'
'I see.' Raymond pocketed his stone/potato, climbed out of his hole and began to fill it
in. 'Would you care for a cup of coffee?' he asked Simon.