"Martin, Michael A - AtTheCavern" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin Michael A)

A buxom sandy-haired barmaid laid two pints of Guinness before us. I didn't
remember ordering anything. He took a long quaff while I regarded my mug more
reticently. I suppose on some of the time-lines of the multiverse, I'm quite a
tippler.

Wiping the foam from his lips, he said, "I work on the Entertainment side.
Specifically, rock 'n' roll. A & R."

I must have looked stupid, because he added, after a moment, "that means
'Artists and Repertoire.'"

I frowned at the condescension. Sometimes I could really piss me off. "You don't
suppose," I said, "that we could both have been sent here from our respective
timelines to safeguard the same subject?"

"I don't know," he said. "Let's compare notes."

I reached into the valise I always carried on my time-jaunts and withdrew
several paperback books. Old, familiar childhood classics, really. Novels of
imaginative fiction with titles like The Walrus Men, The Sun Kings, and All
Shine On and anthologies with titles like Walls and Bridges of the Imagination
and War Is Over (with Jerry pournelle, with a reprint of the original Stuart
Sutcliffe cover). My counterpart picked up a book, casually at first, until he
recognized the name on the spine. His face registered surprise for a moment, but
he swiftly recovered himself. He flipped through all of them, pausing here and
there to actually read some of the prose. An attitude of seeming reverence
crossed his features as he read.

"I'll be damned," he finally said. "I didn't know he had this in him. I mean, on
my timeline he wrote a couple of books of Lewis Carroll-inspired nonsense, but
never a coherent, sustained narrative like this!"

"What did he do on your timeline instead?" I asked, finally pausing for a moment
to pay proper attention to my beer. "The Altemitech you work for must have
valued it as much as my Alternitech values his contributions to the science
fiction field."

My alter ego drained his mug and gazed into the uneven rafters as he composed
his answer. "In the word of Dr. Winston O'Boogie, 'you shoulda been there.'"

"Meaning what?" I asked, leaving some money on the table.

"Meaning," he said, "follow me into the little club across the street and I'll
show you."

The Cavern Club was just as noisy, sweaty, crowded and close as it had been
during my first cursory reconnaissance visit. The place was stuffed with
gum-chewing teenagers, leather-clad teddy boys and natty suit-and-tie
lunch-crowd types. The stage had just been vacated by what the locals called a