"Robert Reed - Melodies Played upon Cold, Dark Worlds" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Robert)

any work to any size, in any of a hundred languages, using cheap paper or the most expensive linen. Or I
can deliver a million volumes into a private library no larger than a burly human hair. But the smallest
portion of my inventory, and the bulk of my profit, comes from the old books wearing inflated prices,
each aimed at the determined collector who doesn't have the cash or good sense to buy antique
breakfronts or old Barbie dolls.

"Have you checked with my assistant?" I asked.

"The machineтАФ?"

"My AI assistant. Did you ask for his help?"

"I asked for a person. It sent me back here."

"All right." She seemed a little young to feel ill at ease around thinking machines. "Let's walk down this
way," I suggested, leading her into another aisle. Then with a showman's gesture, I told her, "This is my
science section. Cosmology and the history of the universeтАФ"

"It's not that kind of book," she confided. "I'm pretty much sure it isn't."

So I led her into a different corner of the store. "Science fiction?" I asked, pointing at gaudy spines
wearing those curvaceous rockets that have never existed outside of human imaginations.

With a genuine embarrassment, she admitted, "I don't read fiction. For me, things have to be real тАж"

"Nostradamus," I blurted. Really, I don't know why it took me so long to place her on the appropriate
shelf.

But she surprised me, saying, "Oh, he doesn't help me. All of his predictions have come true."

Good, I thought. It was about time that we got rid of that old crank.

Again, as if unsure of her memory or the handwriting, she read the title on the sliver of paper. "Music of
the Spheres is what I wrote. But I don't think that's quite right. I was paraphrasing, I'm afraid."

I made a quick search of my catalog and took an expert's long glance at my occult section. Just to be
sure. Then I sat beside my assistant, doing manually what he could accomplish with a flick of coherent
light. I showed her a few titles with what seemed like the appropriate subject matter. Again, she said that
it wasn't a science book. She was quite sure about that. Then I warned her, "There's hundreds of books
with some similarity to that title. Including posted essays and term papers and obscure articles, there are
better than a hundred thousand works about the future тАж most of them looking rather slight, or
suspicious тАж"

Crestfallen, she said, "I don't know what to do."

"Call your friend," I suggested. "Ask about the title."

"I can't." She showed me a shy little smile, adding, "Actually, he used to be a friend. But now, there's a
restraining order тАж and really, I can't тАж"