"Bruce Holland Rogers - The Krishman Cube" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rogers Bruce Holland)

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Dear Mr. Hammond,
I must assume you didn't take my last letter seriously. There is nothing I haven't told you. I simply don't
have the information you want. I have noticed that my house and office are under surveillance 24 hours a
day, and I assume that you are behind this intrusion into my private life. Please call off your dogs; I've
broken no laws.
Sincerely,
John Quist
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Dear Mr. Hammond.
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This has really gone too far. Both my home and my office have been broken into and carefully
searched. Nothing was stolen, so I assume it was the work of your investigators.
For the sanctity of my home, I will give you what information I have, but as I indicated before, you are
not likely to believe me. My credentials are impeccable, but they are in American literature. There is one
person who could confirm my story, but I am certain that no matter how hard you might look for her, you
wouldn't be able to find her unless she wanted to be found. With her abilities, she could be anywhere.
This letter probably won't change your mind about anything; Colin Urvater will continue to be hailed as
the chief Spinshift theorist and will continue in the role of unwilling pope for the Church of the Divine
Prankster. I fully expect you to file this as another crackpot letter.
I am tempted to give you the facts all at once, but my version of these recent events will seem more
plausible if I unravel all of this gradually.
A fire in the building which houses my department forced me and several of my colleagues to accept
temporary offices elsewhere on the campus. I arrived at dawn on a Monday morning to inspect the space
I had been assigned: an office in the physics building, which I was to share with a graduate teaching
assistant (of physics). When I stepped into the room -- the door had been unlocked -- the sun's first
yellow rays fell through the open blinds. A young woman in blue jeans and a lettered T-shirt stood over
an enormous oak desk which was piled with open books. Her shirt read: WOMEN WHO SEEK
EQUALITY LACK IMAGINATION. She smiled and extended her hand.
"You must be John Quist," she said.
"Dr. Quist," I corrected.
 She grinned wider still. "Karen Krishman," she said, "or, as you're into titles, Pariah Krishman. That's