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

BEIBERMANN'S SOUL
by
Mike Resnick



When Beibermann woke up on Wednesday morning, he discovered
that his soul was missing.
"This can't be," he muttered to himself. "I know I had it
with me when I went to bed last night."
He thoroughly searched his bedroom and his closet and his
office, and even checked the kitchen (just in case he had left it
there when he got up around midnight for a peanut butter
sandwich), but it was nowhere to be found.
He questioned Mrs. Beibermann about it, but she was certain
it had come back from the cleaner's the previous day.
"I'm sure it will turn up, wherever it is," she said
cheerfully.
"But I need it _now_," he protested. "I am a literary artist,
and what good is an artist without a soul?"
"I've always thought that some of the most successful writers
we know had no souls," offered Mrs. Beibermann, thinking of a
number of her husband's colleagues.
"Well, _I_ need it," he said adamantly. "I mean, it's all
very well to remove it when one is taking a shower or working in
the garden, but I absolutely must have it before I can sit down to
work."
So he continued searching for it. He went up to the attic and
looked for it amid a lifetime's accumulation of memorabilia. He
took his flashlight down to the basement and hunted through a
thicket of broken chairs and sofas which he planned someday to
give to the Salvation Army. Then, just to be on the safe side, he
called the restaurant where he and his agent had eaten the
previous evening to see if he had inadvertantly left it there. But
by midday he was forced to admit that it was indeed lost, or at
least very thoroughly misplaced.
"I can't wait any longer," he told his wife. "It's not as if
I am a best-selling author. I have deadlines to meet and bills to
pay. I must sit down to work."
"Shall I place a notice in the classified section of the
paper?" she asked. "We could offer a reward."
"Yes," he said. "And report it to the police as well. They
must stumble across lost and mislaid souls all the time." He
walked to his office door, turned to his wife, and sighed
dramatically. "In the meantime, I suppose I'll have to try to make
do without it."
So he closed the office door, sat down, and began to work.
Ideas (though not entirely his own) flowed freely, concepts
(slightly tarnished but still workable) easily manifested
themselves, characters (neatly labeled and ready to perform)