"Mike Resnick - Beibermann's Soul" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

wife. "Oh, make sure the police are still looking for it, by all means,"
replied Beibermann. "But in the meantime, we must eat -- and technique is not,
after all, to be despised." His next three projects brought higher advances
and still more critical acclaim. By now he had also created a public _persona_
-- articulate, worldly, with just a hint of the sadness of one who had
suffered too much for his Art -- and while he still missed his soul, he had to
admit that his new situation in the world was not at all unpleasant. "We have
enough money now," announced his wife one day. "Why don't we take a vacation?
Surely your soul will be found by then -- and even if it isn't, perhaps we can




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get you a new one. I understand they can make one up in three days in Hong
Kong." "Don't be silly," he said irritably. "My work is more popular than
ever, I'm finally making good money, this is hardly the time for a vacation,
and weren't you a lot thinner when I married you?" He began sporting a goatee
and a hairpiece after his next sale, and started working out in the
neighborhood gymnasium, so that he wouldn't feel awkward and embarrassed when
sweet young things accosted him for autographs at literary luncheons. He
borrowed a number of sure-fire jokes and snappy comebacks and made the circuit
of the television talk shows, and even began work on his autobiography,
changing only those facts that seemed dull or mundane. And then, on a cold
winter's morning, a police detective knocked at his front door. "Yes?" said
Beibermann, puffing a Turkish cigarette through a golden holder, and eyeing
him suspiciously. The detective pulled out a worn, tattered soul and held it
up. "This just turned up in a pawn shop in Jersey," said the detective. "We
have every reason to believe that it might be yours." "Let me just step into
the bathroom and try it on," said Beibermann, taking it from him. Beibermann
walked to the bathroom and locked the door behind him. Then he carefully
unfolded the soul, smoothing it out here and there, and trying not to wince at
its sorry condition. He did not try it on, however -- it was quite dirty and
shopworn, and there was no way to know who had been wearing it. Instead he
began examining it thoroughly, looking for telltale signs -- a crease here, a
worn spot there, most of them left over from his college days -- and came to
the inescapable conclusion that he was, indeed, holding his own soul. For a
moment his elation knew no bounds. Now, at last, he could go back to producing
works of true Art. Then he stared at himself in the mirror. He'd have to go
back to living on a budget again, and of course there'd be no more spare time,
for he was a meticulous craftsman when he toiled in the service of his art.
Beibermann frowned. The innocent young things would seek someone else's
autograph, the television hosts would flock to a new bestseller, and the only
literary luncheons he would attend would be for some _other_ author. He
continued staring at the New Improved Beibermann, admiring the well-trimmed
goatee, the satin ascot, the tweed smoking jacket, the world-weary gaze from
beneath half-lowered eyelids. Then, sighing deeply, he unlocked the door and
walked back to the foyer. "I'm sorry," he said as he handed the neatly-folded
soul back to the detective, "but this isn't mine." "I apologize for taking up
the valuable time of a world- famous man life yourself, sir," said the