"Robert Anton Wilson - Masks of the Illuminati" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Robert Anton)

Englishman asked.
"Well, no," said the doctor.
"Then don't tell me I need an alienist," the Englishman said. "Perhaps the world
needs an alienist. . . perhaps God Himself needs an alienist. . . but I know what I've seen."
"You've seen a man vanish as in a magic act on the stage?" the doctor asked
gently. "That is certainly most extraordinary. I can understand why you might fear
nobody would believe you."
"You are humoring me," the Englishman said accusingly. "I saw it all. . . and I
know it. . . the conspiracy that controls everything behind the scenes. I had all the
evidence, and then it simply vanished. People, post-office boxes, everything. . . all
removed from the earth overnight. . ."
Overnight, overnight, overnight: it was as if the train wheels had picked up the
rhythm of the word.
"You have had some dreadful experience, certainly," the doctor said very gently.
"But is it not possible that you are confused about some of the details, due to shock?"
Overnight, overnight, overnight, went the wheels.
"I have seen what I have seen," the Englishman said flatly, rising. "Excuse me,"
he added, leaving the compartment.
The doctor looked at the Russian still in retreat behind the protective newspaper.
"Did you hear the Beethoven concert while you were in Basel?" he asked
cheerfully.
"I have more important business," the Russian said in his cold curt tone, turning a
page with exaggerated interest in the story he was reading.
The doctor gave up. One passenger deranged and the other uncivil: it was going to
be a dreary trip, he decided.
The Englishman returned with drooping eyes, curled in his corner and was soon
asleep. Laudanum, or some other opiate, the doctor diagnosed. An acute anxiety neurosis,
at least.
Overnight, overnight, overnight, the wheels repeated. The doctor decided to nap a
bit himself.
He awoke with a start, realizing that the Russian had involuntarily grabbed his
arm. Then he heard the Englishman's voice:
"No. . . no. . . I won't go into the garden. . . not again. . . Oh, God, Jones, that
thing. . . the bat wings flapping. . . the enormous red eye. . . God help us, Jones. . ."
"He's totally mad," the Russian said.
"An anxiety attack," the doctor corrected. "He's just having a nightmare. . ."
"Gar gar gar gar," the Englishman went on, almost weeping in his sleep.
The Russian released his grip on the doctor's arm, embarrassed. "I suppose you
see a dozen cases like this a week," he said. "But I'm not used to such things."
"I see them when they're going through these visions wide awake," the doctor
said. "They are still human, and they still deserve sympathy."
"Nobody of his class deserves sympathy," the Russian said, returning to his cold
curt tone and drawing back into his corner.
"The Invisible College," the Englishman mumbled in a silly schizophrenic
singsong. "Now you see it, now you don't. . . into air, into thin air. . ."
"He's talking about a secret society of the seventeenth century," the doctor said,
amazed.
"Even Jones," the Englishman went on muttering. "He existed but he didn't exist. .
. Oh, God, no. . . not back to the garden. . ."
The outskirts of Z├╝rich began to appear outside the window.