"John Varley - Press Enter" - читать интересную книгу автора (Varley John)

and walked toward Kluge's property.
My neighbor across the street, Hal Lanier, was out mowing the lawn.
He waved to me, and I waved back. It was about seven in the evening of a
wonderful August day. The shadows were long. There was the smell of
cut grass in the air. I've always liked that smell. About time to cut my own
lawn, I thought.
It was a thought Kluge had never entertained. His lawn was brown and
knee-high and choked with weeds.
I rang the bell. When nobody came I knocked. Then I sighed, looked
under the mat, and used the key I found there to open the door.
"Kluge?" I called out as I stuck my head in.
I went along the short hallway, tentatively, as people do when unsure of
their welcome. The drapes were drawn, as always, so it was dark in there,
but in what had once been the living room ten television screens gave
more than enough light for me to see Kluge. He sat in a chair in front of a
table, with his face pressed into a computer keyboard and the side of his
head blown away.
Hal Lanier operates a computer for the L.A.P.D., so I told him what I
had found and he called the police. We waited together for the first car to
arrive. Hal kept asking if I'd touched anything, and I kept telling him no,
except for the front door knob.
An ambulance arrived without the siren. Soon there were police all over,
and neighbors standing out in their yards or talking in front of Kluge's
house. Crews from some of the television stations arrived in time to get
pictures of the body, wrapped in a plastic sheet, being carried out. Men
and women came and went. I assumed they were doing all the standard
police things, taking fingerprints, collecting evidence. I would have gone
home, but had been told to stick around.
Finally I was brought in to see Detective Osborne, who was in charge
of the case. I was led into Kluge's living room. All the television screens
were still turned on. I shook hands with Osborne. He looked me over
before he said anything. He was a short guy, balding. He seemed very
tired until he looked at me. Then, though nothing really changed in his
face, he didn't look tired at all.
"You're Victor Apfel?" he asked. I told him I was. He gestured at the
room. "Mister Apfel, can you tell if anything has been taken from this
room?"
I took another look around, approaching it as a puzzle.
There was a fireplace and there were curtains over the windows. There
was a rug on the floor. Other than those items, there was nothing else you
would expect to find in a living room.
All the walls were lined with tables, leaving a narrow aisle down the
middle. On the tables were monitor screens, keyboards, disc drives-all the
glossy bric-a-brac of the new age. They were interconnected by thick
cables and cords. Beneath the tables were still more computers, and
boxes full of electronic items. Above the tables were shelves that reached
the ceiling and were stuffed with boxes of tapes, discs, cartridgesтАж there
was a word for it which I couldn't recall just then. It was software.
"There's no furniture, is there? Other than thatтАж"
He was looking confused.