"Тед Чан. Seventy-Two Letters (72 буквы, Рассказ) (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

Stratton retreated to the back of the storeroom.
"Stop," the assassin ordered. "Stop walking, you! Stop!"
The automaton continued marching, oblivious to all commands. The man
pushed on the door, but to no avail. He then tried slamming into it with
his shoulder, each impact causing the automaton to slide back slightly,
but its rapid strides brought it forward again before the man could
squeeze inside. There was a brief pause, and then something poked through
the grille in the door; the man was prying it off with a crowbar. The
grille abruptly popped free, leaving an open window. The man stretched his
arm through and reached around to the back of the automatonТs head, his
fingers searching for the name each time its head bobbed forward, but
there was nothing for them to grasp; the paper was wedged too deeply in
the slot.
The arm withdrew. The assassinТs face appeared in the window. "Fancy
yourself clever, donТt you?" he called out. Then he disappeared.
Stratton relaxed slightly. Had the man given up? A minute passed, and
Stratton began to think about his next move. He could wait here until the
factory opened; there would be too many people about for the assassin to
remain.
Suddenly the manТs arm came through the window again, this time
carrying a jar of fluid. He poured it over the automatonТs head, the
liquid splattering and dripping down its back. The manТs arm withdrew, and
then Stratton heard the sound of a match being struck and then flaring
alight. The manТs arm reappeared bearing the match, and touched it to the
automaton.
The room was flooded with light as the automatonТs head and upper back
burst into flames. The man had doused it with lamp oil.
Stratton squinted at the spectacle: light and shadow danced across the
floor and walls, transforming the storeroom into the site of some druidic
ceremony. The heat caused the automaton to hasten its vague assault on the
door, like a salamandrine priest dancing with increasing frenzy, until it
abruptly froze: its name had caught fire, and the letters were being
consumed.
The flames gradually died out, and to StrattonТs newly light-adapted
eyes the room seemed almost completely black. More by sound than by sight,
he realized the man was pushing at the door again, this time forcing the
automaton back enough for him to gain entrance.
"Enough of that, then."
Stratton tried to run past him, but the assassin easily grabbed him and
knocked him down with a clout to the head.
His senses returned almost immediately, but by then the assassin had
him face down on the floor, one knee pressed into his back. The man tore
the health amulet from StrattonТs wrist and then tied his hands together
behind his back, drawing the rope tightly enough that the hemp fibers
scraped the skin of his wrists.
"What kind of man are you, to do things like this?" Stratton gasped,
his cheek flattened against the brick floor.
The assassin chuckled. "Men are no different from your automata; slip a
bloke a piece of paper with the proper figures on it, and heТll do your
bidding." The room grew light as the man lit an oil lamp.