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Isle Of The Dead :: Zelazny Roger
Страница: 17 из 110Where once there had been a high, stucco wall enclosing a cobbled courtyard, a black iron gate set within its archway, a hacienda within, sprawled about a small pool where the waters splashed sun-ghosts onthe rough walls and the tiles, now there was a castle of jello with four high towers. Raspberry, yet.
I parked, crossed a rainbow bridge, touched the announcement-plate on the door.
"This home is vacant," reported a mechanical voice through a concealed speaker.
"When will Miss Laris be back?" I asked.
"This home is vacant," it repeated. "If you are interested in purchasing it, you may contact Paul Glidden at Sunspray Realty, Incorporated, 178 Avenue of the Seven Sighs."
"Did Miss Laris leave a forwarding address?"
"No."
"Did she leave any messages?"
"No."
I returned to the slip-sled, raised it onto an eight-inch cushion of air and sought out the Avenue of the Seven Sighs, which had once been called Main Street.
He was fat and lacking in hair, except for a pair of gray eyebrows about two inches apart, each thin enough to have been drawn on with a single pencil-stroke, high up there over eyes slate-gray and serious, higher still above the pink catenary mouth that probably even smiled when he slept, there, under the small, upturned thing he breathed through, which looked even smaller and more turned-up because of the dollops of dough his cheeks that threatened to rise even further and engulf it completely, along with all the rest of his features, leaving him a smooth, suffocating lump (save for the tiny, pierced ears with the sapphires in them), turning as ruddy as the wide-sleeved shirt that covered his northern hemisphere, Mister Glidden, behind his desk at Sunspray, lowering the moist hand I had just shaken, his Masonic ring clicking against the ceramic sunburst of his ashtray as he picked up his cigar, in order to study me, fish-like, from the lake of smoke into which he submerged.
"Have a seat, Mister Conner," he chewed. "What have I got that you want?"
"You're handling Ruth Laris' place, over on Nuage, aren't you?"
"That's right. Think you might want to buy it?"
"I'm looking for Ruth Laris," I said. "Do you know where she's moved?"
A certain luster went out of his eye.
"No," he said. "I've never met Ruth Laris."
"She must want you to send the money someplace."
"That's right."
"Mind telling me where?"
"Why should I?"
"Why not? I'm trying to locate her."
"I'm to deposit in her account at a bank."
"Here in town?"
"That is correct. Artists Trust."
"But she didn't make the arrangements with you?"
"No. Her attorney did.
I parked, crossed a rainbow bridge, touched the announcement-plate on the door.
"This home is vacant," reported a mechanical voice through a concealed speaker.
"When will Miss Laris be back?" I asked.
"This home is vacant," it repeated. "If you are interested in purchasing it, you may contact Paul Glidden at Sunspray Realty, Incorporated, 178 Avenue of the Seven Sighs."
"Did Miss Laris leave a forwarding address?"
"No."
"Did she leave any messages?"
"No."
I returned to the slip-sled, raised it onto an eight-inch cushion of air and sought out the Avenue of the Seven Sighs, which had once been called Main Street.
He was fat and lacking in hair, except for a pair of gray eyebrows about two inches apart, each thin enough to have been drawn on with a single pencil-stroke, high up there over eyes slate-gray and serious, higher still above the pink catenary mouth that probably even smiled when he slept, there, under the small, upturned thing he breathed through, which looked even smaller and more turned-up because of the dollops of dough his cheeks that threatened to rise even further and engulf it completely, along with all the rest of his features, leaving him a smooth, suffocating lump (save for the tiny, pierced ears with the sapphires in them), turning as ruddy as the wide-sleeved shirt that covered his northern hemisphere, Mister Glidden, behind his desk at Sunspray, lowering the moist hand I had just shaken, his Masonic ring clicking against the ceramic sunburst of his ashtray as he picked up his cigar, in order to study me, fish-like, from the lake of smoke into which he submerged.
"Have a seat, Mister Conner," he chewed. "What have I got that you want?"
"You're handling Ruth Laris' place, over on Nuage, aren't you?"
"That's right. Think you might want to buy it?"
"I'm looking for Ruth Laris," I said. "Do you know where she's moved?"
A certain luster went out of his eye.
"No," he said. "I've never met Ruth Laris."
"She must want you to send the money someplace."
"That's right."
"Mind telling me where?"
"Why should I?"
"Why not? I'm trying to locate her."
"I'm to deposit in her account at a bank."
"Here in town?"
"That is correct. Artists Trust."
"But she didn't make the arrangements with you?"
"No. Her attorney did.