"Destroyer 022 - Brain Drain.pdb" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Remo)

"It is good that you have learned to listen," Chiun
said.
"What's going on?" asked Remo.
"First, how did it hurt Emperor Smith to begin with?"
"Exploding sculpture," said Remo.
"Explosion," said Chiun. He went to the entrance of Smith's room and called in:
"What is new in the room you are in?"
"Nothing," said Smith. "What's going on?"
"I smell something," said Chiun.
"Just some fresh paint."
"The whole room is painted?"
"Yes," said Smith.
"And paint covers things," Chiun said.
"What's going on?" asked Smith.
"Nothing to fear. Just get well and do not leave your sickness room until we tell you it is safe."
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"Come here and tell me," said Smith. "Why are we yelling at each other like this ?"
"That, oh, Emperor, is impossible," said Chiun. "You are in a trap. And I would imagine that that thing without imagination prepared a device similar to the one he used before."
"I don't see any statue," Smith said.
"The walls, the room. That is the bomb. And I am sure should we have entered before, both you and your faithful servants would be injured, probably unto death."
"My God, what can we do?" Smith asked.
"Get well and do not leave your room, for I fear your leaving will set off this device in some way. I do not know your modern methods. But of this I am sure. The paint covers death on four sides."
"The ceiling is freshly painted too," said Smith.
"Five sides," said Chiun.
"I could get men here to dismantle it," said Smith.
"How do you know they would not set it off? Just get well. When the time comes for you to leave your room I shall show you how."
"What are you going to do ?"
"Hopefully save you by doing what we do best, oh, gracious Emperor," said Chiun.
"Speedy recovery, Smitty," said Remo. "Don't let it worry you that you're sleeping in the middle of a bomb."
And Chiun noted that if they had left for the riches of Persia, Smith might not have found himself in the center of a boom boom.
"That's a bomb," said Remo.
"And you would have walked into it," said Chiun.
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"How did I know we were dealing with Mr. Gordons?" Remo said. "I was hoping he was in a junkyard someplace, after the last time." And going down the steps, not knowing even what to look for, Remo felt an old, forgotten sensation. He was afraid.
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5
Dr. Robert Caldwell was not an alcoholic. Could an alcoholic walk away from a half-filled glass of scotch down at Mitro's ? Could an alcoholic go on the wagon three or four days in a row? Could an alcoholic have gone through medical school ?
Could an alcoholic have prepared the four brains in trays with labels the way Dr. Caldwell had? He was not an alcoholic. The hospital administration had been against him. It would drive anyone to drink.
If he were an alcoholic he wouldn't have been able to close a deal for a full year's income just to explain certain things to that man. And that man had come to him. Had heard about him. Dr. Robert Caldwell was still a better neurosurgeon dead drunk than most of the knife pushers were sober. The dictum against surgeons drinking had been set up
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when America was still in the Victorian age. Many times Dr. Caldwell had operated better with a couple of settling drinks in him than he did shaky sober. But how could you tell that to a teatotaling hospital administration? They were hypocrites. And his own colleagues had turned on him, that young intern pushing him out of the operating room. Physically.
Dr. Caldwell entered the loft building just off Houston Street in New York City. It wasn't a hospital, but it didn't have to be. The man was buying his wisdom. His experience. His insight. He wasn't buying an operation.
If he were getting an operation, that would be different. But for this, the loft would do. It didn't have to be sanitary. The four brains certainly weren't going to mind a little dust. They had been torn out of their skulls so roughly you couldn't tell the frontal cerebro-corticopontal tract from the sensory tract. They were almost mush anyhow. So he had put them in trays and covered them with bags. He had meant to store them in the refrigerator. But it wouldn't have mattered. So he forgot to store them exactly as he had planned. So what? They were mush anyhow, and when he saw the first light coming through the dusty loft windows he realized he had-well, anyone could have done it-slept on them. But he got them into the refrigerator right then ... Laymen didn't know how indestructible a brain could be. He just wouldn't tell the man. That's all.
Dr. Caldwell was grateful he had a couple of drinks in him. Going up the steps was such a burden. If he hadn't had a couple of drinks, he might
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not have bothered at all. But here he was, at the top of the steps, at the door in one long run. And feeling good. He searched for the key, and while doing so, leaned against the door. It was open.
He turned on the light switch by pulling the string beside the door, and three unshaded bulbs hanging from the ceiling cast an eyeblinking yellow light throughout the loft. There were the refrigerator, the display table and the textbooks. It was all set for tonight. He shut the door behind him and went to the refrigerator. There were four trays. Filling each was a gray whitish mass, like a deflated beach ball with knurls. Each glistened under the harsh yellow light from above as he carried each tray to a table by the wall. The client had labeled each one, and Dr. Caldwell would have to replace the labels with his own. Not that it mattered. What difference was there between a singer's brain and a painter's brain and a sculptor's brain and a dancer's brain?
He would do it after he had a drink. After all, hadn't he left a half-glass of scotch down at Mitro's? In the small room with the toilet were three cardboard cases of rye whiskey.
If Dr. Caldwell were an alcoholic, he wouldn't have left these bottles and gone to Mitro's. He just would have stayed here in the loft with the booze and drunk himself into a stupor. But he had gone to Mitro's and drunk at the bar like any other serious drinker and had left a half-glass there.
He got a glass from the refrigerator and washed it out in the giant tubs right near the refrigerator. An alcoholic would have drunk right from the bottle.