"Olaf Stapledon - Collected Stories" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stapledon Olaf)

opposite direction, hooted violently, and drew up with screeching brakes. The driver emerged, went to
the derelict car, opened a door, and was confronted by the unconscious occupant. While the horrified
newcomer was wondering what to do, the other recovered consciousness. There was an anxious
conversation, and finally both cars went their separate ways.

Jim now felt ready to impress his girlfriend. Since the killing of the robin, they had occasionally met, and
in his awkward and adolescent way he had tried to make love to her. She had always discouraged him;
but she was obviously more interested in him since the robin incident. Though she sometimes affected to
despise him, he felt that she was secretly drawn to him.

But one day he had an unpleasant surprise. He had boarded a bus to take him home from his work. He
climbed the stairs and settled into a seat. Suddenly he noticed Helen sitting a few seats ahead with a
curly-headed young man in a sportscoat. The couple were deep in conversation with their heads bent
together. The girl's hair brushed his cheek. Presently she laughed, with a ring of happiness such as he had
never before heard from her. She turned her face toward her companion. It was aglow with vitality and
love. Or so it seemed to the jealous lover three seats behind.

Irrational fury swept over him. He was so ignorant of the ways of girls, and so indignant that "his girl" (for
so he regarded her) should take notice of another man, that jealousy wholly possessed him, to the
exclusion of all other considerations. He could think of nothing but destroying his rival. His gaze seized
upon the nape of the hated neck before him. He passionately conjured up images of the hidden vertebrae
and the enclosed bundle of nerve fibres. The nerve current must cease; must, must cease. Presently the
curly head sank on Helen's shoulder, and then the whole body fell forward.

The murderer hurriedly rose from his seat and turned his back on the incipient commotion. He left the
bus, as though ignorant of the disaster.

Continuing his journey on foot, he was still so excited that he had no thought but exultation over his
triumph. But gradually his frenzy subsided, and he faced the fact that he was a murderer. Urgently he
reminded himself that after all there was no point in feeling guilty, since morality was a mere superstition.
But alas, he did feel guilty, horribly guilty; the more so since he had no fear of being caught.

As the days passed, Jim alternated between what he regarded as "irrational" guilt and intoxicating
triumph. The world was indeed at his feet. But he must play his cards carefully. Unfortunately his guilt
gave him no peace. He could not sleep properly; and when he did sleep, he had terrifying dreams. By
day his experiments were hampered by the fantasy that he had sold his soul to the devil. This notion
infuriated him with its very silliness. Yet he could not rid himself of it. He began drinking rather heavily.
But he soon found that alcohol reduced his psychokinetic power, so he firmly broke himself of the habit.

Another possible form of relief from his obsessive guilt was sex. But somehow he could not bring himself
to face Helen. He was irrationally afraid of her. Yet she must be quite ignorant that he had killed her
lover.

At last he met her accidentally in the street. There was no possibility of avoiding her. She was rather wan,
he thought, but she smiled at him and actually suggested a talk over a cup of coffee. He was tom between
fear and desire, but presently they were seated in a cafe. After some trivial remarks, she said.

"Please comfort me! I have had a terrible shock quite recently. I was on the top of a bus with my brother
who has been in Africa for three years. While we were talking, he collapsed and died almost instantly. He
seemed perfectly fit. They say it was some new virus in the spinal cord." She noticed that Jim's face had