"Robert Reed - 555" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Robert)

555
Robert Reed


I AM A PLEASANT, PRETTY-faced soul, and a small soul, my quiet
voice rarely heard in the normal course of any day. I have been placed here
as a presence, as a reassuring feature within this exceptionally
complicated landscape, embracing a role not unlike that served by the
elegant mansions and sprawling country clubs, not to mention the great
golden tower where the lords of this world fight endless wars for
dominion. I am the symbol of loyalty. To my mistress, the great Claudia, I
am the quiet but fiercely devoted assistant. She gives me her order, and I
say, "Yes, ma'am." With a crisp nod and a cheery smile, I tell her,
"Immediately, ma'am." Typically her chores are small things easily
accomplished. Calls need to be made, documents signed. But my main
purpose--my guiding mission --is to sit behind my smallish desk, and with
my undiluted enthusiasm, I convince the other world that in the constant
mayhem of our world, Claudia can always count on little me.
I sit inside my little office. There is an apartment that is mine as well,
but mostly, I sit in the office tucked outside Claudia's much larger office.
When necessary, I can appear extremely busy. My fingers dance, causing
colors to change on one or more of the screens before me. I can lift a pen
and fill any yellow pad with elaborate symbols. If the telephone sings, I can
lift the receiver to my ear, nod with interest, and tell the silence on the
other end, "I will do that. Thank you, sir. Ma'am." But mostly, I just sit,
waiting my next opportunity to excel.
My office has a single window. From my chair, from the highest floor of
the very famous tower, a great slice of the City is easily visible. For me, it
is usually daytime. The City is beautiful and vast, and perfect, avenues laid
out with delicious precision, great buildings and little houses presenting
an image of teeming masses and relentless wealth. The world's most
beautiful structure is the Golden Tower, but I myself have never actually
seen it from below. Yet I cannot imagine any sight as impressive as the
one afforded me by this single window. When I am certain that Claudia
will not need me for the next long while, I rise from behind my desk and
press my pretty-enough face against the window, squinting and squinting,
observing details that are too small to be noticed in the normal course of
the day.
What I see of the City is a coarse approximation, naturally. When I look
carefully, as I do now, I can see how each house and vehicle and even the
people that are supposed to be souls are composed of nothing, more or
less, than a few dots of color arranged to imply familiar shapes.
The City is home to a few thousand named souls.
Give each speck a name and there would be millions of us.
By that logic, I am fortunate. Incredibly, undeservedly lucky. I have a
name: Joan. I have not one place to be, but two, and if you count the
parties and street scenes where I have appeared, then I have visited better
than a dozen places. I remember each one. Ages later, I can recall what I
said and to whom, and every good thing that I did for my mistress. "Joan,
you need to see to this. To that." Yes, of course, madam. This and that,