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

Her face white, Lotta whispered, "I--can't stand it in here. But I have to look up some information for Seb." Her discomfort was palpable; her whole body was held rigidly, awkwardly, so that its natural lines were warped; her fear made her misshapen.
"Take it easy," he said, surprised at her apprehension; he wanted at once to make her feel better and he took her by the arm, led her away from the chief librarian's desk, out of the immense, dully booming room and into the relatively stress-free corridor.
"Oh god," she said miserably. "I just can't do it, go in there and face that woman, that awful Mrs. McGuire. Seb told me to ask for someone else, but I don't know anyone. And when I get scared I can't think." She gazed up at him miserably, appealing to him for help.
Tinbane said, "This place gets a lot of people down." His arm around her waist, he steered her down the corridor toward the exit.
"I can't leave," she said frantically, pulling away. "Seb said I have to find out about the Anarch Peak."
"Oh?" Tinbane said. He wondered why. Did Sebastian expect the Anarch to be old-born in the near future?
That would shed a somewhat different light on the pilg by Ray Roberts; in fact an entirely new light: it would explain why now and why Los Angeles.
"Douglas Appleford," Tinbane decided. He knew the man; a stuffy, formal, but reasonably helpful person; certainly far more easily dealt with than Mavis McGuire. "I'll take you to his office," he said to the frightened girl, "and introduce you to him. As a matter of fact I'm here doing research myself. On Ray Roberts. So I need assistance, too."
Lotta said, gratefully, "You know just about everybody." She looked much better, now; the twisted, hunched posture had left her, and again she struck him as vital and attractive. Hmm, he thought, and guided her down the hall, toward Douglas Appleford's offices.


When Douglas Appleford arrived at his office in Section B of the Library that morning he found his secretary Miss Tomsen trying to rid herself--and him, too--of a tall, sloppily dressed, middle-aged Negro gentleman with a briefcase under his arm.
"Ah, Mr. Appleford," the individual said in a dry, hollow voice as he made out Appleford, obviously recognizing him at once; he approached, hand extended. "How nice to meet you, sir. Goodbye, goodbye. As the Phase has taught us to say." He smiled a flashbulb instantly vanishing smile at Appleford, who did not return it.
"I'm quite a busy man," Appleford said, and continued on past Miss Tomsen's desk to open the inner door to his especially private office. "If you wish to see me you'll have to make a regular appointment. Hello." He started to shut the door after him.
"This concerns the Anarch Peak," the tall Negro with the briefcase said. "Whom I have reason to believe you're interested in.,,
"Why do you say that?" He paused, irritated. "I don't recall ever having felt or expressed any interest in a religious fanatic fortunately laid in his grave for two decades." With sudden suspicion and aversion he said, "Peak isn't about to be reborn, is he?"
Again the tall Negro smiled his mechanical smile--and mechanical it was; Doug Appleford now perceived the small but brilliant yellow stripe sewed on the tall man's coat sleeve. This person was a robot, required by law to wear the identifying swath so as not to deceive. Realizing this, Appleford's irritation grew; he had a strict, deeply imbedded prejudice against robies which he could not rid himself of; which he did not want to rid himself of, as a matter of fact.
"Come in," Appleford said, holding the door to his absolutely pin-neat office open. The roby represented some human principal; it had not dispatched itself: that was the law. He wondered who had sent it. Some functionary of a European syndicate? Possibly. In any case, better to hear the thing out and then tell it to leave.
Together, in this central work chamber of his suite of chambers, the two of them faced each other.
"My card," the roby said, extending its hand.
Appleford read the card, scowling.

Carl Gantrix
Attorney-At-Law, W.U.S.

"My employer," the roby said. "So now you know my name. You may address me as Carl; that would be satisfactory." Now that the door had shut, with Miss Tomsen on the other side, the roby's voice had acquired a sudden and surprising authoritative tone.
"I prefer," Appleford said cautiously, "to address you in the more familiar mode as Carl Junior. If that doesn't offend you." He made his own voice even more authoritative. "You know I seldom grant audiences to robots. A quirk, perhaps, but one concerning which I am notoriously consistent."
"Until now," the robot Carl Junior murmured; it retrieved its card and placed it back in its wallet, a thrifty, robotish move. Then, seating itself, it began to unzip its briefcase. "Being in charge of Section B of the Library, you are of course an expert on the Hobart Phase. At least so Mr. Gantrix assumes. Is he correct, sir?" The robot glanced up keenly.
"Well, I deal with it constantly." Appleford affected a vacant, cavalier tone; it was always better to show a superior attitude when dealing with a roby. Constantly necessary to remind them in this particular, fashion--as well as in countless others--of their place.
"So Mr. Gantrix realizes. And it is to his everlasting credit that via such a profound realization he has inferred that you have, over the years, become something of an authority on the advantages, sir, the uses and also manifold disadvantages, of the Hobart reverse- or anti-time field. True? Not true? Choose one."
Appleford pondered. "I choose the first. Although you must take into account the fact that my knowledge is pragmatic, not theoretical. But I can correctly deal with the vagaries of the Phase without being appalled. And it is appalling, Junior, the things that pop into being under the Phase. Such as the deaders. That really doesn't appeal all that much to me; that, in my opinion, is one of the greater disadvantages. The rest of them I can stand."
"Certainly." The roby Carl Junior nodded its thermoplastic quite humanoid head. "Very good, Mr. Appleford. Now down to business. His Mightiness, the Very Honorable Ray Roberts, is preparing to come out here to the W.U.S., as you may have read in your morning 'pape. It will be a major public event, of course; that goes without saying. His Mightiness, who is in charge of the activities of Mr. Gantrix, has asked me to come to Section B of your Library and, if you will cooperate, sequester all manuscripts still extant dealing with the Anarch Peak. Will you cooperate? In exchange, Mr. Gantrix is willing to make a sizeable donation to assist your Library in prospering in forthcoming years."
"That is indeed gratifying," Appleford acknowledged, "but I'm afraid I would have to know _why_ your principal wishes to sequester the documents pertaining to the Anarch." He felt tense; something about the roby put his psychological defenses into operation.
The roby rose to its metal feet; leaning forward, it deposited a host of documents on Appleford's desk. "In answer to your query I respectfully insist that you examine those."


Carl Gantrix, by means of the video circuit of the robot's system, treated himself to a leisurely inspection of the assistant librarian Douglas Appleford as that individual plowed through the wearying stack of deliberately obscure pseudo-documents which the robot had presented.
The bureaucrat in Appleford had been ensnared by the bait; his attention distracted, the librarian had become oblivious to the robot and to its actions. Therefore, as Appleford read, the robot expertly slid its chair back and to the left side, close to a reference card case of impressive proportions. Lengthening its right arm, the robot crept its manual grippers of fingeroid shape into the nearest file of the case; this Appleford did of course not see, and so the robot then continued with its assigned task. It placed a miniaturized nest of embryonic robots, no larger than pinheads, within the card file, then a tiny find-circuit transmitter behind a subsequent card, then at last a potent detonating device set on a three-day command circuit.
Watching, Gantrix grinned. Only one construct remained in the robot's possession, and this now appeared briefly as the robot, eying Appleford sideways and cautiously, edged its extensor once more toward the file, transferring this last bit of sophisticated hardware from its possession to the Library's.
"Purp," Appleford said, without raising his eyes.
The code signal, received by the aud chamber of the file, activated an emergency release; the file closed in upon itself in the manner of a bivalve seeking safety. Collapsing, the file retreated into the wall, burying itself out of sight. And at the same time it ejected the constructs which the robot had placed inside it; the objects, expelled with electronic neatness, bounced in a trajectory which deposited them at the robot's feet, where they lay in clear view.
"Good heavens," the robot said involuntarily, taken aback.
Appleford said, "Leave my office immediately." He raised his eyes from the pseudo-documents, and his expression was cold. As the robot reached down to retrieve the now-exposed artifacts he added, "And leave those items here; I want them subjected to lab analysis regarding purpose and source." He reached into the top drawer of his desk, and when his hand emerged it held a weapon.
In Carl Gantrix's ears the phone-cable voice of the robot buzzed. "What should I do, sir?"
"Leave presently." Gantrix no longer felt amused; the fuddyduddy librarian was equal to the probe, was capable in fact of nullifying it. The contact with Appleford would have to be made in the open, and with that in mind Gantrix reluctantly picked up the receiver of the vidphone closest to him and dialed the Library's exchange.
A moment later he saw, through the video scanner of the robot, the librarian Douglas Appleford picking up his own phone in answer.
"We have a problem," Gantrix said. "Common to us both. Why, then, shouldn't we work together?"
Appleford answered, "I'm aware of no problem." His voice held ultimate calmness; the attempt by the robot to plant hostile hardware in his work area had not ruffled him. "If you want to work together," he added, "you're off to a bad start."
"Admittedly," Gantrix said. "But we've had difficulty in the past with you librarians." Your exalted position, he thought; protected by the Erads and all. But he did not say it. "There is, in the wealth of material--accurate and inaccurate--one particular piece of info that we lack, that we are particularly anxious to acquire. The rest. . ." He hesitated, then gambled. "I'll put you in mind of that fact, and perhaps you can direct us to a source by which to verify it. _Where is the Anarch Peak buried?_"
"God only knows," Appleford said.