"Rhys Hughes - The Singularity Spectres" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hughes Rhys)

I trusted the Victorian inventor, who seemed as confident in racing up as Zimara had been in hurtling down.
My faith was justified -- another five days of inertial motion, in the course of which we improvised a set of
dominoes from my false teeth, an act of sacrifice made futile because Zimara kept cheating, and a spot of
light far above finally presaged our imminent arrival. We came to a halt on the lip of the grotto and I leapt off
the stairs and kissed the biggest stalagmite in gratitude. A glimmer at its base attracted my attention and I
stooped to pick up a shiny pair of high-quality chrome scissors.

The engineer took them from me and gazed at the fingerprints on the handles. "Belong to 'im, these do!
Recognise the unpasteurised whorls on the thumb. I have a method of sorting French prints from those of
honest citizens. Pattern de foie gras!"

Sharing the surviving suitcases, we hastened up the tunnels and out of the station. It was still raining in
Isledon Road and our loping gait and troglodytic squinting did little to endear us to the damp and grumpy
pedestrians. We shrugged off the oily precipitation and arid insults and gained the shelter of the college
cloisters, where I outlined my general strategy for Dean Nutt's demise.

I slapped Zimara on the back and winked conspiratorially. "Here are the keys to my house. You've done
enough already, leading me to the ball of ghosts. But I require another favour from you: tell my wife how brave
and intrepid I've been. Then I'll be able to fall straight into her arms after the fight with our enemy!"

He opened his lips to protest at such an easy task, but the ecstasy on my face was more eloquent than
phrases and he assented. How would she be able to resist my approaches after hearing his account? I
burned with impatience to take her in my arms like a real husband. Zimara was a fine herald of my new
confidence: his own dashing aspects would turn her mind to thoughts of sensual activity.

As he stepped into the drizzle, I shouted after him, "Help yourself to refreshments from my cellar!"

Kingdom Noisette stroked his whiskers. "What about me, laddie? What part do I play in your revenge?"

I consulted my watch. "The Dean will be in the middle of one of his lectures now. While I search for the
printing-press, I want you to burst in with the suitcases and confront him with the truth. Cast them open at his
feet. His audience will scorn your revelations -- they're engineering students and don't believe in apparitions --
but then I'll enter with the press and we'll issue the necessary licenses. Our captured spectres will fly in their
faces! That will show the cynics! Just tell me how to print licenses for anonymous spirits."

"It can't be done, laddie," replied the engineer.

"What? You mean we've dragged these samples all the way up here for naught? What a chump I've
been!"

"Try printing a group visa. It probably won't work, but that's what they said about the Darlington to Thule
railway." He tapped his nose. "I was responsible for laying the underground line. It's still a secret. We use it
to import nasty weather." I was astonished. "Doesn't supply exceed demand?"

"I'm not an economist, laddie. Sensible or not, it's a grand sight, all those wagons loaded with blizzards."

This was no occasion to be gossiping over the climate. I guided the engineer to the imposing building
which the Dean had claimed in the name of progress. We stood outside his personal lecture-theatre and I
glanced through the oblong windows set into the swing doors. Monsieur Nutt was a monstrous sight, his