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The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
Страница: 142 из 164He tossed the notes back to Foyle. «You can produce them again if I decide to take your case and if I decide I've been worth that to you. What's your problem?»
«Criminal.»
«Don't be too specific yet. And . . .
«I want to give myself up.»
«To the police?»
«Yes.»
«For what crime?»
«Crimes.»
«Name two.»
«Robbery and rape.»
«Name two more.»
«Blackmail and murder.»
«Any other items?»
«Treason and genocide.»
«Does that exhaust your catalogue?»
«I think so. We may be able to unveil a few more when we get specific.»
«Been busy, haven't you? Either you're the Prince of Villains or insane.»
«I've been both, Mr. Sheffield.»
«Why do you want to give yourself up?»
«I've come to my senses,» Foyle answered bitterly.
«I don't mean that. A criminal never surrenders while he's ahead. You're obviously ahead. What's the reason?»
«The most damnable thing that ever happened to a man. I picked up a rare disease called conscience.»
Sheffield snorted. «That can often turn fatal.»
«It is fatal. I've realized that I've been behaving like an animal.»
«And now you want to purge yourself?»
«No, it isn't that simple,» Foyle said grimly. «That's why I've come to you . . for major surgery. The man who upsets the morphology of society is a cancer. The man who gives his own decisions priority over society is a criminal. But there are chain reactions. Purging yourself with punishment isn't enough. Everything's got to be set right. I wish to God everything could be cured just by sending me back to Gouffre Martel or shooting me. . .»
«Back?» Sheffield cut in keenly.
«Shall I be specific?»
«Not yet. Go on. You sound as though you've got ethical growing pains.»
«That's it exactly.» Foyle paced in agitation, crumpling the banknotes with nervous fingers. «This is one hell of a mess, Sheffield. There's a girl that's got to pay for a vicious, rotten crime. The fact that I love her…No, never mind that. She has a cancer that's got to be cut out . . . like me. Which means I'll have to add informing to my catalogue. The fact that I'm giving myself up too doesn't make any difference.»
«What is all this mish-mash?»
Foyle turned on Sheffield. «One of the New Year's bombs has just walked into your office, and it's saying: 'Put it all right. Put me together again and send me home.
«Criminal.»
«Don't be too specific yet. And . . .
«I want to give myself up.»
«To the police?»
«Yes.»
«For what crime?»
«Crimes.»
«Name two.»
«Robbery and rape.»
«Name two more.»
«Blackmail and murder.»
«Any other items?»
«Treason and genocide.»
«Does that exhaust your catalogue?»
«I think so. We may be able to unveil a few more when we get specific.»
«Been busy, haven't you? Either you're the Prince of Villains or insane.»
«I've been both, Mr. Sheffield.»
«Why do you want to give yourself up?»
«I've come to my senses,» Foyle answered bitterly.
«I don't mean that. A criminal never surrenders while he's ahead. You're obviously ahead. What's the reason?»
«The most damnable thing that ever happened to a man. I picked up a rare disease called conscience.»
Sheffield snorted. «That can often turn fatal.»
«It is fatal. I've realized that I've been behaving like an animal.»
«And now you want to purge yourself?»
«No, it isn't that simple,» Foyle said grimly. «That's why I've come to you . . for major surgery. The man who upsets the morphology of society is a cancer. The man who gives his own decisions priority over society is a criminal. But there are chain reactions. Purging yourself with punishment isn't enough. Everything's got to be set right. I wish to God everything could be cured just by sending me back to Gouffre Martel or shooting me. . .»
«Back?» Sheffield cut in keenly.
«Shall I be specific?»
«Not yet. Go on. You sound as though you've got ethical growing pains.»
«That's it exactly.» Foyle paced in agitation, crumpling the banknotes with nervous fingers. «This is one hell of a mess, Sheffield. There's a girl that's got to pay for a vicious, rotten crime. The fact that I love her…No, never mind that. She has a cancer that's got to be cut out . . . like me. Which means I'll have to add informing to my catalogue. The fact that I'm giving myself up too doesn't make any difference.»
«What is all this mish-mash?»
Foyle turned on Sheffield. «One of the New Year's bombs has just walked into your office, and it's saying: 'Put it all right. Put me together again and send me home.