"Brian Lumley - Psychomech 01 - Psychomech" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lumley Brian)

might. Garrison had long ago decided that he must solve his own. So what exactly did this Thomas Schroeder hope to
do for him?
‘Possibly,’ the Major had hazarded aboard the plane, ’he wishes to thank you personally, and in some more or less
concrete manner. I believe he’s a rich man. Now I understand you’re well satisfied with what you’ve already got out of
all .this,’ (he had silently cursed himself for an unfortunate choice of words) ’but in the event he should offer you
money, it would certainly not be in your best interests to refuse him.’
‘It would make more sense and be a better deal if he offered me a job,’ Garrison had answered. ‘One I can handle
without eyes.’
‘You’re a strange man,’ the Major had commented, frowning. ‘You hardly seem to miss your sight. I mean—’ He
paused.
‘I know what you mean.’
‘I don’t think you do. I meant simply that I know a lot of much harder men who would have broken up - or broken
down - if they’d suffered your loss.’
‘How do you know they’re harder?’ Garrison had asked. ‘And do you mean hard or hardened? Let me tell you what
hard is. Hard is being seven years old and seeing your Mam and Dad falling out of love. It’s being brought up by an
uncle who strangles your kitten as a punishment for shitting yourself with diarrhoea when you get caught short. It’s
being fifteen and mad in love for the first time, and finding your girl on the beach with a friend who happens to be
screwing her arse off. And it’s a hell of a lot of other things in between. These are the things I call, or used to call,
hard: things that happen to you when you’re not really to blame. Things that hit you out of the blue, when you’re least
expecting them and can’t fight them. And each bit of hard adds a thin layer to your skin, until you’ve a hide like an
elephant.’
‘Your life?’ the Major had asked.
‘Some of it,’ a curt nod. ‘There were other things, as I’ve said, but I’ve killed off the memories. Do you understand
that? In my mind, I’ve killed them off. There’s nothing bitter in there any more.’ He had shrugged. ‘Once you know
how to do it it’s easy. This blindness is something I’ll kill off too. Hell, this has nothing to do with being hard! I knew
what I was doing when I joined the Army, and when I volunteered for NI. And when I took Schroeder into the Europa,
I... I somehow knew - I mean, I really—’
‘But—’ Marchant had started to speak when Garrison faltered.
‘Look,’ the Corporal had turned on him then, his face dead white around and behind his dark glasses. ‘The only
difference between you and me is that you can see. I have to learn to "see" all over again, and without the benefit of
eyes. But I’ll tell you this: when I can see again, I’ll see a damn sight straighter than you. For one thing, I won’t have
the problem of peering round a big fat stiff upper lip!’
‘Sir!’ Major Marchant had snapped, and immediately wished he could bite his tongue off. He had only recently
achieved his majority and enjoyed being called sir. He had been "sir" as a Captain, of course, but somehow it hadn’t
meant so much. Now, this Corporal - this blind Corporal whose confidential reports had never failed to note the chip
on his shoulder, or rather the absence of chinks in his armour - seemed to be trying to make a mockery of the whole
thing. The man was an opportunist, without doubt, and he certainly intended making gain out of his disability. His
insubordinate attitude was sufficient proof of that. Very well, fair enough to play the game for monetary gain; but to
take advantage of a senior officer’s natural compassion—
‘Sir?’ Garrison had slowly answered. ‘Listen, sir. In a couple of weeks’ time the Army is going to boot me out.
Pension me off. Send me a card every Christmas and a copy of the Corps Journal four times a year. Hey! And you
know something, they’ll really do that! Some idiot will send Journals - and me blind’ as a bat! And you want me to call
you sir? Now? What’ll you do if I refuse? Court martial me?’
After which they had sat in silence. The journey had not been a pleasant one.
Similarly irritating for Major Marchant was the way in which Garrison accepted the idea of a silver Mercedes waiting
alongside the runway as the big jet trundled to a halt. He hadn’t even smiled at Marchant’s exclamation when he and
the Major were called forward, first to disembark. Then there had been the curt, typically German handshakes at the
foot of the travelling ramp, and Marchant shown into the rear of the car while the uniformed chauffeur took Garrison’s
white stick and assisted him into the front passenger’s seat. But then again, it was Garrison this mysterious German
industrialist wanted to see. Major Marchant could not then have realized, however, the very small part he himself was