"Dick, Philip K - Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dick Phillip K)

done a lot to you, too, physically. Although maybe n-n-not your brain, as in m-my case." I'm
fired, he realized. I can't make the call. And then all at once he remembered that the owner of
the cat had zipped off to work. There would be no one home. "I g-guess I can call him," he
said, as he fished out the tag with the information on it.
"See? " Mr. Sloat said to Milt. "He can do it if he has to."
Seated at the vidphone, receiver in hand, Isidore dialed.
"Yeah," Milt said, "but he shouldn't have to. And he's right; the dust has affected you; you're
damn near blind and in a couple of years you won't be able to hear."
Sloat said, "It's got to you, too, Borogrove. Your skin is the color of dog manure."
On the vidscreen a face appeared, a mitteleuropaische some-what careful-looking
woman who wore her hair in a tight bun. "Yes?" she said.
"M-m-mrs. Pilsen?" Isidore said, terror spewing through him; he had not thought of it
naturally but the owner had a wife, who of course was home. "I want to t-t-talk to you about
your c-c-c-c-c-c — " He broke off, rubbed his chin tic-wise. "Your cat."
"Oh yes, you picked up Horace," Mrs. Pilsen said. "Did it turn out to be pneumonitis?
That's what Mr. Pilsen thought."
Isidore said, "Your cat died."
"Oh no god in heaven."
"We'll replace it," he said. "We have insurance." He glanced toward Mr. Sloat; he seemed
to concur. "The owner of our firm, Mr. Hannibal Sloat — " He floundered. "Will personally — "
"No," Sloat said, "we'll give them a check. Sidney's list price."
" — will personally pick the replacement cat out for you," Isidore found himself saying.
Having started a conversation which he could not endure he discovered himself unable to
get back out. What he was saying possessed an intrinsic logic which he had no means of
halting; it had to grind to its own conclusion. Both Mr. Sloat and Milt Borogrove stared at him
as he rattled on, "Give us the specifications of the cat you desire. Color, sex, subtype, such
as Manx, Persian, Abyssinian — "
"Horace is dead," Mrs. Pilsen said.
"He had pneumonitis," Isidore said. "He died on the trip to the hospital. Our senior staff
physician, Dr. Hannibal Sloat, expressed the belief that nothing at this point could have
saved him. But isn't it fortunate, Mrs. Pilsen, that we're going to replace him. Am I correct?"
Mrs. Pilsen, tears appearing in her eyes, said, "There is only one cat like Horace. He used
to — when he was just a kitten — stand and stare up at us as if asking a question. We never
understood what the question was. Maybe now he knows the answer." Fresh tears
appeared. "I guess we all will eventually."
An inspiration came to Isidore. "What about an exact electric duplicate of your cat? We
can have a superb handcrafted job by Wheelright & Carpenter in which every detail of the old
animal is faithfully repeated in permanent — "
"Oh that's dreadful!" Mrs. Pilsen protested. "What are you saying? Don't tell my husband
that; don't suggest that to Ed or he'll go mad. He loved Horace more than any cat he ever
had, and he's had a cat since he was a child."
Taking the vidphone receiver from Isidore, Milt said to the woman, "We can give you a
check in the amount of Sidney's list, or as Mr. Isidore suggested we can pick out a new cat
for you. We're very sorry that your cat died, but as Mr. Isidore pointed out, the cat had
pneumonitis, which is almost always fatal." His tone rolled out professionally; of the three of
them at the Van Ness Pet Hospital, Milt performed the best in the matter of business phone
calls.
"I can't tell my husband," Mrs. Pilsen said.
"All right, ma'am," Milt said, and grimaced slightly. "We'll call him. Would you give me his
number at his place of employment?" He groped for a pen and pad of paper; Mr. Sloat