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The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
Страница: 127 из 164Michele on the French coast, Mars St. Michele was a majestic Gothic cathedral of spires and buttresses looming on a hill and yearning toward the sky. Ocean tides surrounded Mont St. Michele on earth. Green tides of grass surrounded Mars St. Michele. Both were fortresses. Mont St. Michele had been a fortress of faith before organized religion was abolished. Mars St. Michele was a fortress of telepathy. Within it lived Mars's sole full telepath, Sigurd Magsman.
«Now these are the defenses protecting Sigurd Magsman,» Foyle chanted, halfway between hysteria and litany. «Firstly, the Solar System; secondly, martial law; thirdly, Dagenham-Presteign amp; Co.; fourthly, the fortress itself; fifthly, the uniformed guards, attendants, servants, and admirers of the bearded sage we all know so well, Sigurd Magsman, selling his awesome powers for awesome prices. . . .»
Foyle laughed immoderately: «But there's a Sixthly that I know: Sigurd Magsman's Achilles' Heel . . . For I've paid ~r 1,000,000 to Sigurd III or was he IV?»
He passed through the outer labyrinth of Mars St. Michele with his forged credentials and was tempted to bluff or proceed directly by commando action to an audience with the Great Man himself, but time was pressing and his enemies were closing in and he could not afford to satisfy his curiosity. Instead, he accelerated, blurred, and found a humble cottage set in a walled garden within the Mars St. Michele home farm. It had drab windows and a thatched roof and might have been mistaken for a stable. Foyle slipped inside.
The cottage was a nursery. Three pleasant nannies sat motionless in rocking chairs, knitting poised in their frozen hands. The blur that was Foyle came up behind them and quietly stung them with ampules. Then he decelerated. He looked at the ancient, ancient child; the wizened, shriveled boy who was seated on the floor playing with electronic trains.
«Hello, Sigurd,» Foyle said.
The child began to cry.
«Crybaby! What are you afraid of? I'm not going to hurt you.»
«You're a bad man with a bad face.»
«I'm your friend, Sigurd.»
«No, you're not. You want me to do b-bad things.»
«I'm your friend. Look, I know all about those big hairy men who pretend to be you, but I won't tell. Read me and see.»
«You're going to hurt him and y-you want me to tell him.»
«Who?»
«The captain-man. The Ski…Skot…” The child fumbled with the word, wailing louder. «Go away; You're bad. Badness in your head and burning mens and…”
«Come here, Sigurd.
«Now these are the defenses protecting Sigurd Magsman,» Foyle chanted, halfway between hysteria and litany. «Firstly, the Solar System; secondly, martial law; thirdly, Dagenham-Presteign amp; Co.; fourthly, the fortress itself; fifthly, the uniformed guards, attendants, servants, and admirers of the bearded sage we all know so well, Sigurd Magsman, selling his awesome powers for awesome prices. . . .»
Foyle laughed immoderately: «But there's a Sixthly that I know: Sigurd Magsman's Achilles' Heel . . . For I've paid ~r 1,000,000 to Sigurd III or was he IV?»
He passed through the outer labyrinth of Mars St. Michele with his forged credentials and was tempted to bluff or proceed directly by commando action to an audience with the Great Man himself, but time was pressing and his enemies were closing in and he could not afford to satisfy his curiosity. Instead, he accelerated, blurred, and found a humble cottage set in a walled garden within the Mars St. Michele home farm. It had drab windows and a thatched roof and might have been mistaken for a stable. Foyle slipped inside.
The cottage was a nursery. Three pleasant nannies sat motionless in rocking chairs, knitting poised in their frozen hands. The blur that was Foyle came up behind them and quietly stung them with ampules. Then he decelerated. He looked at the ancient, ancient child; the wizened, shriveled boy who was seated on the floor playing with electronic trains.
«Hello, Sigurd,» Foyle said.
The child began to cry.
«Crybaby! What are you afraid of? I'm not going to hurt you.»
«You're a bad man with a bad face.»
«I'm your friend, Sigurd.»
«No, you're not. You want me to do b-bad things.»
«I'm your friend. Look, I know all about those big hairy men who pretend to be you, but I won't tell. Read me and see.»
«You're going to hurt him and y-you want me to tell him.»
«Who?»
«The captain-man. The Ski…Skot…” The child fumbled with the word, wailing louder. «Go away; You're bad. Badness in your head and burning mens and…”
«Come here, Sigurd.