"Kurt Vonnegut - The Sirens of Titan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vonnegut Kurt)

The key to the Alice-in-Wonderland door had come with the invitation. Malachi Constant
slipped the key into his fur-lined trouser pocket and followed the one path that opened before
him. He walked in deep shadow, but the flat rays of the sunset filled the treetops with a Maxfield
Parrish light.
Constant made small motions with his invitation as he proceeded, expecting to be challenged
at every turn. The invitation's ink was violet. Mrs. Rumfoord was only thirty-four, but she wrote
like an old woman — in a kinky, barbed hand. She plainly detested Constant, whom she had
never met. The spirit of the invitation was reluctant, to say the least, as though written on a soiled
handkerchief.
"During my husband's last materialization," she had said in the invitation, "he insisted that you
be present for the next. I was unable to dissuade him from this, despite the many obvious
drawbacks. He insists that he knows you well, having met you on Titan, which, I am given to
understand, is a moon of the planet Saturn."
There was hardly a sentence in the invitation that did not contain the verb insist. Mrs.
Rumfoord's husband had insisted on her doing something very much against her own judgment,
and she in turn was insisting that Malachi Constant behave, as best he could, like the gentleman
he was not.
Malachi Constant had never been to Titan. He had never, so far as he knew, been outside the
gaseous envelope of his native planet, the Earth. Apparently he was about to learn otherwise.
 The turns in the path were many, and the visibility was short. Constant was following a damp
green path the width of a lawn mower — what was in fact the swath of a lawn mower. Rising on
both sides of the path were the green walls of the jungle the gardens had become.
The mower's swath skirted a dry fountain. The man who ran the mower had become creative
at this point, had made the path fork. Constant could choose the side of the fountain on which he
preferred to pass. Constant stopped at the fork, looked up. The fountain itself was marvelously
creative. It was a cone described by many stone bowls of decreasing diameters. The bowls were
collars on a cylindrical shaft forty feet high.
Impulsively, Constant chose neither one fork nor the other, but climbed the fountain itself. He
climbed from bowl to bowl, intending when he got to the top to see whence he had come and
whither he was bound.
Standing now in the topmost, in the smallest of the baroque fountain's bowls, standing with his
feet in the ruins of birds' nests, Malachi Constant looked out over the estate, and over a large part
of Newport and Narragansett Bay. He held up his watch to sunlight, letting it drink in the
wherewithal that was to solar watches what money was to Earth men.
The freshening sea breeze ruffled Constant's blue-black hair. He was a well-made man — a
light heavyweight, dark-skinned, with poet's lips, with soft brown eyes in the shaded caves of a
Cro-Magnon brow-ridge. He was thirty-one.
He was worth three billion dollars, much of it inherited.
His name meant faithful messenger.
He was a speculator, mostly in corporate securities.
In the depressions that always followed his taking of alcohol, narcotics, and women, Constant
pined for just one thing — a single message that was sufficiently dignified and important to merit
his carrying it humbly between two points.
The motto under the coat of arms that Constant had designed for himself said simply, The
Messenger Awaits.
What Constant had in mind, presumably, was a first. class message from God to someone
equally distinguished.
Constant looked at his solar watch again. He had two minutes in which to climb down and
reach the house — two minutes before Kazak would materialize and look for strangers to bite.
Constant laughed to himself, thinking how delighted Mrs. Rumfoord would be were the vulgar,