"Spider Robinson - The Magnificent Conspiracy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Spider)

nec-essary symbolтАФbut because it is only a symbol, it is possible to amass on
paper more profit than there actually is to be made. The more peoplewho insist on
making a profit, all the time, in every dealing, the more people who will be required
to go bankrupt to pour their life-energy into the system and get nothing backтАФin
order to keep the machine running. A profit is without honor, save in its own
countryтАФthere is certainly nothing sacred about one. Especially if you don't need
it."
I continued to gape.
"Perhaps I should explain," he went on, "that I was born with a golden spoon in
my mouth. My family has been unspeakably wealthy for twelve generations,
controlling one of the old-est and most respected fortunes in existenceтАФthe kind
that calls for battalions of tax lawyers in every country in the world. My personal
worth is so absurdly enormous that if I were to set a hundred dollar bill on fire every
minute of my waking life I would never succeed in getting out of the highest income
tax bracket."
"You ... " My system flooded with adrena-line. "You can't be that Cardwell."
BIG money.
"There are times when I almost wish I wasn't. But since I have no choice at all in
the matter, I'm trying to make the best of it."
"By throwing money away?" I yelped, and fought for control.
"No. By putting it back where it belongs. I inherited control of a stupendous
age-old leechтАФand I'm forcing it to regurgitate."
"I don't understand." I shook my head vigorously and rubbed a temple with my
thumb, "I just don't understand."
He smiled the sad smile again, and the pipe wrench loosened in his grip for the
first time. "You don't have to, you know. You can take your money from Arden and
drive home in a loaner and pick up your convertible in a few days and then put it all
out of your mind. All I'm sell-ing is used cars."
He was asking me a question.
I shook my head again, more slowly. "No ... no, I'd like to understand, I think.
Will you explain?"
He put the wrench down on an oil drum. "Let's sit down."
There were a pair of splendidly comfortable chairs in the rear of the garage, with
foldaway armrests that let you select for comfort or elbow room at need. Beyond
them stood an expensive (but not frost-free) refrigerator, from which Cardwell
produced two frosty bottles of Dos Equis. I accepted one and sat in the nearer
chair. Cardwell sprawled back in his and put his feet up on a beheaded slant six
engine, and when he drank he gave the beer his full attention.
I regret to say I did not. Despite all the evi-dence, I could not make myself believe
that this grease-stained mechanic with his sneakers on an engine block was actually
the Raymond Sinclair Cardwell. If it was true, my fee was going to quintuple, and
Hakluyt was fucking well going to pay it. Send a man after a cat, and forget to
mention that it's a black panther ... Jesus.
Cardwell's chair had a beverage holder built into the armrest; he set his beer in it
and folded his arms easily. He spoke slowly, thoughtfully; andhe had that knack of
observing you as he spoke, modifying his word choice by feedback. I have the
knack myself; but I wondered why a man in his situation would have troubled to
acquire it. I found myself trying as hard to understand him as he was trying to be
understood.