"Frank Herbert - Operation Syndrome" - читать интересную книгу автора (Herbert Brian & Frank)

She looked up at him, eyes shining. "Did it get ... everybody?"
He nodded, thought: She needs something to distract her attention.
He said, "Miss Lanai, could I ask a favor?" He plunged ahead, not waiting for an answer.
"You've been three places where the Syndrome hit. Maybe there's a clue in your patterns.
Would you consent to undergoing a series of tests at my lab? They wouldn't take long."
"I couldn't possibly; I have a show to do tonight. I just sneaked out for a few minutes by
myself. I'm at the Gweduc Room. Pete may wake up and -- " She focused on his pleading
expression. "I'm sorry, doctor. Maybe some other time. You wouldn't find anything important
from me anyway."
He shrugged, hesitated. "But I haven't told you about my dream."
"You tempt me, doctor. I've heard a lot of phony dream reports. I'd appreciate the McCoy
for just once. Why don't you walk me back to the Gweduc Room? It's only a couple of blocks."
"Okay."
She took his arm.
"Half a loaf -- "




He was a thin man with a twisted leg, a pinched, hating face. A cane rested against his
knee. Around him wove a spiderweb maze of wires -- musikron. On his head, a dome-shaped
hood. A spy, unsuspected, he looked out through a woman's eyes at a man who had identified
himself as Dr. Eric Ladde. The thin man sneered, heard through the woman's ears: "Half a loaf
-- "




On the bayside walk, Eric and Colleen matched steps.
"You never did tell me what a musikron is."
Her laughter caused a passing couple to turn and stare. "O.K. But I still don't understand.
We've been on TV for a month."
He thought, She thinks I'm a fuddy; probably am!
He said, "I don't subscribe to the entertainment circuits. I'm just on the science and news
networks."
She shrugged. "Well, the musikron is something like a recording and playback machine; only
the operator mixes in any new sounds he wants. He wears a little metal bowl on his head and
just thinks about the sounds -- the musikron plays them." She stole a quick glance at him,
looked ahead. "Everyone says it's a fake; it really isn't."
Eric stopped, pulled her to a halt. "That's fantastic. Why -- " He paused, chuckled. "You
know, you happen to be talking to one of the few experts in the world on this sort of thing. I
have an encephalo-recorder in my basement lab that's the last word in teleprobes ... that's
what you're trying to describe." He smiled. "The psychiatrists of this town may think I'm a
young upstart, but they send me their tough diagnostic cases." He looked down at her. "So
let's just admit your Pete's machine is artistic showmanship, shall we?"
"But it isn't just showmanship. I've heard the records before they go into the machine and
when they come out of it."
Eric chuckled.
She frowned. "Oh, you're so supercilious."
Eric put a hand on her arm. "Please don't be angry. It's just that I know this field. You don't