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

The doctor reached forward and touched the Englishman's shoulder with careful
gentleness. "It is only a dream," he said softly, in the Englishman's own language. "You
can wake now and it will all be over."
The Englishman's eyes shot open, wide with terror.
"You were having a bad dream," the doctor said. "Just a bad dream. . ."
"A lot of nonsense," the Russian said suddenly, coming out of his aloof coldness.
"You would be wiser to forget all these imaginary demons and fear instead the rising
wrath of the working classes."
"It wasn't a dream," the Englishman said. "They are still after me. . ."
"Young man," the doctor said urgently, "whatever you fear is inside your own
mind. It is not outside you at all. Please try to understand that."
"You fool," the Englishman said, "inside and outside are the same to them. They
can enter our minds whenever they will. And they can change the world whenever they
will."
"They?" the doctor asked shrewdly. "The Invisible College?"
"The Invisible College is dead," the Englishman said. "The Black Brotherhood
has taken over the world."
"Z├╝rich!" shouted the conductor. "Last stop! Z├╝rich!"
"Listen," the doctor said. "If you are going to be in Z├╝rich for a while, come see
me, please. I really believe I can help you." He handed the Englishman a card.
The Russian arose with a skeptical rumble in his throat and left the compartment
without a farewell.
"This is my card," the doctor repeated. "Will you come to see me?"
"Yes," the Englishman said with that mechanical insincere smile again. But after
the doctor left he sat th alone staring into space with empty eyes, dropping the card to the
floor absently. He had only glanced briefly at the name on it: Dr. Carl Gustav Jung.
"I don't need an alienist," he repeated listlessly. "I need an exorcist."



IN THE HEART OF THE
HELVITIAN METROPOLIS

Stately, plump Albert Einstein came from the gloom-domed Lorelei barroom
bearing a paleyellow tray on which two mugs of beer stood carefully balanced, erect.
Baggy trousers and an old green sweater, their colors dark-shadowed in the candlelit
Rathskeller, garbed carelessly his short gnomic frame, yet his black hair was neatly
combed, dandyish, and his black mustache jaunty.
"Oolf," said Professor Einstein, almost colliding with another beer-laden figure in
the gloom.
 James Joyce, gaunt and pale, raised drunken blue eyes to survey with a lean
intense look the shadowdark and the diminutive figure of Einstein approaching. "Ah," he
said thoughtfully, too sozzled to articulate further.
Einstein deposited the amber tray with care on Joyce's plain unpainted table; but
before seating himself he danced three Dionysian steps to the tune of an accordion played
by a one-eyed factory worker in the corner. Something almost girlish in the grace of the
dance struck Joyce, who once again said, "Ah."
"Jeem," said Einstein, "why so silent suddenly?" He seated himself carefully,
watchingfeeling for his chair the candlelit gloom. Seated safely, he at once drank deep
dark drafts of the mahogany-hued beer, relishing it. Joyce continued to survey him with