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

popped up as he needed them. In fact, the ease with which he
achieved his day's quota of neatly-typed pages surprised him,
although he had the distinct feeling that there was something
_missing_, some element that could only be supplied by his
misplaced soul.
Still, he decided, staring at what he had thus far
accomplished, a lifetime's mastery of technique could hide a lot
of faults. So he did a little of this, and a little of that, made
a correction here, inserted some literary pyrotechnics there. He
imbued it with a certain fashionable eroticism to impress his
audience and a certain trendy obtuseness to bedazzle the critics,
and finally he emerged and showed the finished product to his
wife.
"I don't like it," said Mrs. Beibermann.
"I thought it was rather good," said Beibermann petulantly.
"It _is_ rather good," she agreed. "But you never settled for
rather good before."
Beibermann shrugged. "It's got a lot of style to it," he
said. "Maybe no one else will see what's missing."
And indeed, no one else _did_ see what was missing. His agent
loved it, his public loved it, and most of all, his editor loved
it. He deposited an enormous check in his bank account and went
back to work.
"But what about your soul?" asked his 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 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.