"Michael Marshall Smith - To Receive Is Better" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Michael Marshall)

had. I found out a lot later that MannyтАЩs wife had died having a dead baby, so maybe that was it.
What he did was take some of us, and let us live outside the tunnels. At first it was just a few, and then about half
of the entire stock of spares. Some of the others never took to the world outside the tunnels, such as it was. TheyтАЩd
just come out every now and then, moving hopelessly around, mouths opening and shutting, and they always looked
kind of blue somehow, as if the tunnel light had seeped into their skin. There were a few who never came out of the
tunnels at all, but that was mainly because theyтАЩd been used too much already. Three years old and no arms. Tell me
thatтАЩs fucking reasonable.
Manny let us have the run of the facility, and sometimes let us go outside. He had to be careful, because there was
a road a little too close to one side of the farm. People would have noticed a group of naked people stumbling around
in the grass, and of course we were naked, because they didnтАЩt give us any fucking clothes. Right to the end we
didnтАЩt have any clothes, and for years I thought it was always raining on the outside, because thatтАЩs the only time
heтАЩd let us out.
 IтАЩm wearing one of MannyтАЩs suits now, and SueтАЩs got some blue jeans and a shirt. The pants itch like hell, but I
feel like a prince. Princes used to live in castles and fight monsters and sometimes theyтАЩd marry princesses and live
happy ever after. I know about princes because IтАЩve been told.
Manny told us stuff, taught us. He tried to, anyway. With most of us it was too late. With me it was too late,
probably. I canтАЩt write, and I canтАЩt read. I know thereтАЩs big gaps in my head. Every now and then I can follow
something through, and the way that makes me feel makes me realise that most of the time it doesnтАЩt happen. Things
fall between the tracks. I can talk quite well, though. I was always one of MannyтАЩs favourites, and he used to talk to
me a lot. I learnt from him. Part of what makes me so fucking angry is that I think I could have been clever. Manny
said so. Sue says so. But itтАЩs too late now. ItтАЩs far too fucking late.
I was ten when they first came for me. Many got a phone call and suddenly he was in a panic. There were spares
spread all over the facility and he had to run around, herding us all up. He got us into the tunnels just in time and we
just sat in there, wondering what was going on.
In a while Manny came to the tunnel I was in, and he had this other guy with him who was big and nasty. They
walked down the tunnel, the big guy kicking people out of the way. Everyone knew enough not to say anything:
Manny had told us about that. Some of the people who never came out of the tunnels were crawling and shambling
around, banging off the walls like they do, and the big guy just shoved them out of the way. They fell over like lumps
of meat and then kept moving, making noises with their mouths.
Eventually Manny got to where I was and pointed me out. His hand was shaking and his face looked strange, like
he was trying not to cry. The big guy grabbed me by the arm and took me out of the tunnel. He dragged me down to
the operating room, where there were two more guys in white clothes and they put me on the table in there and cut off
two of my fingers.
ThatтАЩs why I canтАЩt write. IтАЩm right-handed, and they cut off my fucking fingers. Then they put a needle into my
hand with see-through thread and sewed it up like they were in a hurry, and the big man took me back to the tunnel,
opened the door and shoved me in. I didnтАЩt say anything. I didnтАЩt say anything the whole time.
Later Manny came and found me, and I shrank away from him, because I thought they were going to do something
else. But he put his arms round me and I could tell the difference, and so I let him take me out into the main room. He
put me in a chair and washed my hand which was all bloody, and then he sprayed it with some stuff that made it hurt a
little less. Then he told me. He explained where I was, and why.
I was a spare, and I lived on a Farm. When people with money got pregnant, Manny said, doctors took a cell from
the foetus and cloned another baby, so it had exactly the same cells as the baby that was going to be born. They grew
the second baby until it could breath, and then they sent it to a farm.
The spares live on the farm until something happens to the proper baby. If the proper baby damages a part of
itself, then the doctors come to the farm and cut a bit off the spare and sew it onto the real baby, because itтАЩs easier
that way because of cell rejection and stuff that I donтАЩt really understand. They sew the spare baby up again and
push it back into the tunnels and the spare sits there until the real baby does something else to itself. And when it
does, the doctors come back again.
Manny told me, and I told the others, and so we knew.
We were very, very lucky, and we knew it. There are farms dotted all over the place, and every one but ours was