"021 - Dick, Philip K - Counter Clock World v1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dick Phillip K)

While he busied himself the vidphone rang again. He gave up on the sogum, plodded back to answer the ring.
It proved to be Mavis McGuire again. "An Erad is now with Mrs. Hermes," Mavis said. "They'll question her; it's taken care of. It's their theory that the vitarium probably took a calculated risk and dug up the Anarch, to avoid any chance of losing him; he's too valuable commercially to lose. So it's their assumption that we don't have to locate the cemetery; all we need to do is approach the vitariurm. The Council is sending someone to the vitarium now; they want to move in before it closes up shop for tonight." She added, "It's my daughter they're sending."
"Ann?" Appleford said, surprised. "Why not an Erad?"
Mavis said, "Annie works well with men, and this will be with a Mr. Sebastian Hermes, an old-born, now in his mid-forties. We feel that that kind of approach will be more successful than an out-and-out raid; it's conceivable that they brought the Anarch's body from the cemetery to the vitarium, revived it, and then moved it to another location, a private nursing home that we'd never track down."
"I see," Appleford said, impressed. Ann McGuire impressed him, too; he had seen her at work before. Especially with men, as her mother said; she was generally effective whenever the matter of sex became involved.
It had always been his hope, his masochistic plea, that Mavis and the Council would dispatch Ann to do a hatchet job on _him_.
In this situation, with Sebastian Hermes married, Ann would be especially efficient; her specialty was entering a man-woman relationship as a third party, eventually driving out the wife--or mistress; whatever--and reducing the number of players to two: herself and the man.
Lots of luck, Mr. Hermes, he thought wryly. And then he thought of timid little Mrs. Hermes subjected to the explorations of an Erad, and that made him uncomfortable.
After the interrogation, Lotta Hermes would be different. He wondered which way: for the good or for the worse. The interrogation would either make her or destroy her; it could go in either direction.
He hoped for the former; he had liked the girl.
But his hands were tied.









9


God does not know things because they are: they are because He knows them, and His knowledge of them is their essence.
--Erigena



Officer Joe Tinbane ruminated, I certainly made a horse's mouth of myself. I've ruined my friendship with the Hermeses, and because of me she had to go back to the Library. It's my moral burden, whatever happens to her; it's on my conscience, until birth.
A lot of times, he reflected, when a person has a phobia about a particular place or situation, there's a valid reason. It's a form of precognition. If Lotta's that afraid of going there, then she probably has reason to be. Those Erads, he said to himself. Mysterious; who and what are they? The Los Angeles Police Department doesn't know; _I_ don't know.
He was home, now, with Bethel. And, as usual, she was giving him a hard time.
"You're not taking any interest in your sogum," Bethel said fiercely.
"I'm going off," he announced, "and disgorge. Where I can be alone and think."
"Oh? I interfere with your thoughts? Who are they about?"
He said, stung by her tone, "Okay; if you want to know, I'll tell you."
"Another woman."
"Right." He nodded. "One whom I could love."
"You once said you could never love anyone in the way you loved me; that every other relationship--"
"That was then." Too many years had passed; talk could not revive a moribund marriage. Why should I be married--stay married--to someone who doesn't basically respect me or like me? he asked himself. The dreary years, passing . . . the accusations. Rising to his feet, he detached himself from his sogum pipe. "I may have killed her," he said. "I take responsibility." I have to get her out of the Library, he said to himself.
"You're off to visit her now," Bethel said. "Without even trying to conceal this--illicit relationship from me, your wife. I took our marriage vows seriously, but you've never tried; if we can't work things out it's because you haven't tried or been responsible. And now you're openly, blatantly, running off to her. Go ahead."
"Hello," he said; the conapt door shut after him and he was out in the hall, hurrying toward his parked, unmarked prowl car. Should I go this way? he wondered. Out of uniform? No. He ran back to the door of their conapt--and found it locked.
"Don't try to come back," Bethel said. "I'm getting a divorce." Even through the heavy servofome door her voice was clear. "As far as I'm concerned you don't live here."
"I want," he grated, "my uniform."
There was no response. The door stayed shut.
In his prowl car on the roof parking lot he kept a spare doorkey; once more he raced toward the ascent runnel. She can't come between me and my uniform, he declared to himself. That's illegal. Reaching his car he fumbled in the glove compartment. Aw, the hell with it; he got in behind the wheel, started up the engine. As long as I have my gun, he said to himself; he tugged it from his shoulder holster, checked to be sure all twelve chambers were loaded--except the one against which the half-cocked firing pin potentially rested--and then zoomed off into the early evening Los Angeles sky.
Five minutes later he landed on the deserted--or rather almost deserted--roof parting lot of the People's Topical Library. Expertly, he flashed his light into each of the parked aircars. All belonged to Erads, except one registered to Mavis McGuire. So he knew who he could expect to find in the Library besides Lotta Hermes: a gang of at least three Erads and the Chief Librarian.
He quickly reached the roof entrance of the Library, and found it locked. Well, he thought, naturally; it's after hours. But I know she's in there, he thought, even if her car isn't parked up here; she probably came by taxi. Probably she was afraid to drive.
From the trunk of his prowl car he got a lock-analyzer, carried it by its worn leather strap-it had seen a good deal of service--to the Library door. Set in motion, the analyzer probed the lock, listened, then developed a proper tumbler-lift pattern; the door swung open, unlocked, with no damage done to it, no proof that it had been forced.
He returned the luck-analyzer to the car's trunk; then, pausing, inspected the mass of gear which he habitually carted about; what else might help him? Riot gas? Its use could be reported to his superiors in the department; he'd he in trouble. Cephalic-wave detection apparatus, he decided; it'll tell me how many people are in the vicinity and it'll plot their paths. I'll know who's converging on me and from where. So he took the cephalic-wave detector, snapped it on and set it for minimum range; at once the sweep of its scope-screen displayed five distinct dots, five human brains at work within yards from him. probably on the top floor of the Library. He then set the detector for maximum range, and now made out seven dots; so in all, he had six Library officials to cope with, plus Lotta Hermes, whom he assumed to be one of the dots.
He assumed she was still alive, as well as still in the Library.