JК
The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
Страница: 125 из 164make him feel what I felt?» He turned away from the tortured man on the table, equally tortured himself by frustration. «A Skoptsy! The one thing I never figured on after preparing that port stateroom for him . . . What am I going to do? What, in God's name am I going to do?» he roared in fury, the stigmata showing livid on his face.
He was recalled by a desperate moan from Kempsey. He returned to the table and bent over the dissected body. «Let's get it straight for the last time. This Skoptsy, Lindsey Joyce, gave the order to scuttle the reffs?»
«Yes.»
«And to let me rot?»
«Yes. Yes. Yes. That's enough. Let me die.»
«Live, you pig-man . . filthy heartless bastard! Live without a heart. Live and suffer. I'll keep you alive forever, you…”
A lurid flash of light caught Foyle's eye. He looked up. His burning image was peering through the large square porthole of the stateroom. As he leaped to the porthole, the burning man disappeared.
Foyle left the stateroom and darted forward to main controls where the observation bubble gave him two hundred and seventy degrees of vision. The Burning Man was nowhere in sight.
«It's not real,» he muttered. «It couldn't be real. It's a sign, a good luck sign. . . a Guardian Angel. It saved me on the Spanish Stairs. It's telling me, to go ahead and find Lindsey Joyce.»
He strapped himself into the pilot chair, ignited the yawl's jets, and, slammed into full acceleration.
«Lindsey Joyce, Skoptsy Colony, Mars,» he thought as he was thrust back deep into the pneumatic chair. «A Skoptsy . . . Without senses, without, pleasure, without pain. The ultimate in Stoic escape. How am I going to punish him? Torture him? Put him in the port stateroom and make him feel what I felt aboard 'Nomad'? Damnation! It's as though he's dead. He is dead. And I've got to figure how to beat a dead body and make it feel pain To come so close to the end and have the door slammed in your face. . The damnable frustration of revenge. Revenge is for dreams . . . never for reality.»
An hour later he released himself from the acceleration and his fury, unbuckled himself from the chair, and remembered Kempsey. He went aft to the surgery. The extreme acceleration of the take-off had choked the blood pump enough to kill Kempsey. Suddenly Foyle was overcome with a novel passionate revulsion for himself. He fought it helplessly.
«What's a matter, you?» he whispered. «Think of the six hundred, scuttled Think of yourself . . .
He was recalled by a desperate moan from Kempsey. He returned to the table and bent over the dissected body. «Let's get it straight for the last time. This Skoptsy, Lindsey Joyce, gave the order to scuttle the reffs?»
«Yes.»
«And to let me rot?»
«Yes. Yes. Yes. That's enough. Let me die.»
«Live, you pig-man . . filthy heartless bastard! Live without a heart. Live and suffer. I'll keep you alive forever, you…”
A lurid flash of light caught Foyle's eye. He looked up. His burning image was peering through the large square porthole of the stateroom. As he leaped to the porthole, the burning man disappeared.
Foyle left the stateroom and darted forward to main controls where the observation bubble gave him two hundred and seventy degrees of vision. The Burning Man was nowhere in sight.
«It's not real,» he muttered. «It couldn't be real. It's a sign, a good luck sign. . . a Guardian Angel. It saved me on the Spanish Stairs. It's telling me, to go ahead and find Lindsey Joyce.»
He strapped himself into the pilot chair, ignited the yawl's jets, and, slammed into full acceleration.
«Lindsey Joyce, Skoptsy Colony, Mars,» he thought as he was thrust back deep into the pneumatic chair. «A Skoptsy . . . Without senses, without, pleasure, without pain. The ultimate in Stoic escape. How am I going to punish him? Torture him? Put him in the port stateroom and make him feel what I felt aboard 'Nomad'? Damnation! It's as though he's dead. He is dead. And I've got to figure how to beat a dead body and make it feel pain To come so close to the end and have the door slammed in your face. . The damnable frustration of revenge. Revenge is for dreams . . . never for reality.»
An hour later he released himself from the acceleration and his fury, unbuckled himself from the chair, and remembered Kempsey. He went aft to the surgery. The extreme acceleration of the take-off had choked the blood pump enough to kill Kempsey. Suddenly Foyle was overcome with a novel passionate revulsion for himself. He fought it helplessly.
«What's a matter, you?» he whispered. «Think of the six hundred, scuttled Think of yourself . . .