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

compromised her privacy; instead, stared at the VT, where a naked pair or
trio of aliens (it was hard to differentiate them) copulated in slow
motion (presumably, unless that was their normal rate of motion), with
various ecstatic subtitles in several languages scrolling across the
borders of the screen. "No," he murmured, "I worked late."
"Really? Good. You should work more overtime ... we could use the money."
"Hey, buddy-bob," said Seth, awkwardly.
"H'lo, Seth." Cardiff threw a glance at his wife's guest, raising a palm
in greeting. Seth was a co-worker she had befriended, who had been coming
over here or inviting Saundra over his place for about two months now.
Saundra's arm, Cardiff saw, was moving slightly like a pulsing worm along
the back rest of the sofa. He realized she was kneading the back of Seth's
neck with her hand. "Lena went out with Marisol tonight." She yawned. Like
a cat stretching its long lithe body, she rose from the couch. "You can
watch in here ... Seth and I will watch in the other room."
Seth didn't rise at first; he shot a look from Saundra to Cardiff back to
Saundra again. But she tipped her head toward the doorway and at last he
stood to follow her from the room. "Okay, so, later on, buddy-bob," he
mumbled with something like amicable apology to Cardiff.
Cardiff nodded. When they had left the room he shut off the VT and went to
eat a late supper in the kitchen, leaving Saundra and Seth to watch the
smaller VT in the other room, which was his bedroom.
Before he left the livingroom for the kitchen, however, his eyes were
attracted to a greenish glow in the corner. The Whipping Boy, on a little
table, like some sardonic voyeur, its court jester's face gleeful. Seeing
it there, Cardiff was paralyzed with a fury so great he could have walked
over to the thing and flung it out the window. Bloody wretched toy,
gloating. That superior, cruel humor glinting in its mascaraed eyes. What
sick freak had ever penned the original of that face? Cardiff thought that
he'd like to stick a knife right into its forehead ... and then, perhaps,
into the forehead of the artist who had drawn it.

When the vidphone rang, Cardiff awoke on the sofa with the VT running
again, quietly. He had been watching a very old Earth movie (it was in
black and white, even) called "Schindler's List", which was quite sad, and
he supposed he should have felt scorn for those uniformed Germans but he
was too continuously distracted instead by the disdain he felt for that
peeping-tom jester in the corner. Yet he had dozed off at some point, and
when he went to answer the phone now he wasn't sure if Saundra and Seth
were still in the bedroom.
On the vidplate was a stranger, a gaunt-faced Detective Bell from police
precinct 15. He had bad news, he announced ... and within minutes, Cardiff
was on his way to Precinct House 15, without having rapped on his bedroom
door to let Saundra know where he was going, or what had happened...
When the attendant pulled the drawer open, Cardiff stared down at a
teenage girl with her mouth in a weird little smile and a greater smile
grinning at her throat.
"That's Marisol," Cardiff whispered, almost in a faint. "Lena's friend..."
"Idiot," Detective Bell hissed, nudging past the attendant to slide the
drawer in, and slide a second one out.