"Jeffrey Thomas - The Hate Machines" - читать интересную книгу автора (Thomas Jeffrey)

feelings to stab its own tiny bosom.
In a little compartment hidden behind two folding doors which when shut
formed a silvery ribcage, there resided a small chunk of living matter,
created specifically for use in such devices, more plant than animal but
neither, really. It was like some yellowish gelatinous organ. It was at
first, anyway. But after weeks and months of absorbing Cardiff's mental
poisons, this miniature organ would gradually darken, blacken, wither and
die. He had killed six of these organs already, in his Whipping Boy. (They
were replaceable, of course.) It was a good feeling, killing one of those
ghastly living blobs...torturing it a bit at a time. Besting it at last.
He looked forward to killing the virgin heart of this monstrous little
fucker that was leering at him even now.
A pen tapped him on the head. It startled him, and for a moment he nearly
lashed out at the Scapegoat with his fist; he thought that it was
responsible, somehow. But looking up, he saw Ruth standing there,
glowering down at him. Hers was the craggy face of a hard drinker, her
voice just as craggy. "Please don't day-dream, Hugh ... we're a day
behind, here." She gestured with her pen at his screen, where swarming
ant-like motions had dropped to an idle snail's crawl. "Why do you still
have so many pallets left to store, at this time of the afternoon?"
She seemed to sense, supernaturally, when one was lagging behind ...
whether it was their fault or not. One was constantly glancing over their
shoulder, expecting to see her materialized there. He almost flinched
sometimes, hearing that gravelly voice in the next aisle, drifting his
way. Even when she didn't brow-beat him for an entire day he lived in
dread of her brow-beating. That is, he had. Up until this week. It was all
so much easier to deal with her, this week...
Whereas Cardiff would normally stammer, fight to keep tremors of fear and
impotent rage out of his voice, to keep the blood from sloshing crazily in
his heart, now he found himself merely smiling shyly up at his boss.
"Sorry," he told her pleasantly. "I'll stay late tonight if I have to, to
catch up."
"Well you'd better." Her eyes drifted to the Scapegoat contemptuously
also, though it wasn't attuned to her emotions. "Don't be staring at that
stupid thing all day. I don't see why you don't just take a pill, or
something simple like that."
"Some therapists believe it's better not to eradicate any kind of
emotion," Cardiff explained helpfully, whereas in the past he had never
felt inclined to chat with his boss. "They think it's more natural and
more beneficial to encourage anger, feelings like that ... to let them all
out. Just, to let them all out at a hate machine."
"Well," Ruth said, still gazing at that irritatingly whimsical visage, "I
still think it's stupid, and if I had my way they wouldn't be allowed in
here." She switched her gaze to him, now. "I want that work cleaned up,
Hugh."
He smiled again and nodded, watched her walk away. Then, he turned back to
his monitor. Yes, Ruth was so much easier to take, now.
But from the corner of his eye, he saw that ridiculous face watching him.
He could easily imagine what its chuckle would sound like. Laughing at him
as if he were the ridiculous one. At this moment he desperately wanted to