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The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
Страница: 24 из 164You can't even run from me because all I got to do is tip Intelligence and where are you? There ain't nothing nobody can do to stop me; not the hospital or even Mr. Holy Mighty Presteign of Presteign.»
«Get out, you filthy, hideous. . . thing. Get out!»
«You don't like my face, Miss Robin? There ain't nothing you can do about that either.»
Suddenly he picked her up and carried her to a deep couch. He threw her down on the couch.
«Nothing,» he repeated.
Devoted to the principle of conspicuous waste, on which all society is based, Presteign of Presteign had fitted his Victorian mansion in Central Park with elevators, house phones, dumb-waiters and all the other laborsaving devices which jaunting had made obsolete. The servants in that giant gingerbread castle walked dutifully from room to room, opening and closing doors, and climbing stairs.
Presteign of Presteign arose, dressed with the aid of his valet and barber, descended to the morning room with the aid of an elevator, and breakfasted, assisted by a butler, footman, and waitresses. He left the morning room and entered his study. In an age when communication systems were virtually extinct-when it was far easier to jaunte directly to a man's office for a discussion than to telephone or telegraph-Presteign still maintained an antique telephone switchboard with an operator in his study.
«Get me Dagenham,» he said.
The operator struggled and at last put a call through to Dagenham Couriers, Inc. This was a hundred million credit organization of bonded jaunters guaranteed to perform any public or confidential service for any principal. Their fee was ~r i per mile. Dagenham guaranteed to get a courier around the world in eighty minutes.
Eighty seconds after Presteign's call was put through, a Dagenham courier appeared on the private jaunte stage outside Presteign's home, was identified and admitted through the jaunte-proof labyrinth behind the entrance. Like every member of the Dagenham staff, he was an M class jaunter, capable of teleporting a thousand miles a jump indefinitely, and familiar with thousands of jaunte co-ordinates. He was a senior specialist in chicanery and cajolery, trained to the incisive efficiency and boldness that characterized Dagenham Couriers and reflected the ruthlessness of its founder.
«Presteign?» he said, wasting no time on protocol.
«I want to hire Dagenham.»
«Ready, Presteign.»
«Not you. I want Saul Dagenham himself.»
«Mr. Dagenham no longer gives personal service for less than ~r 100,000.»
«The amount will be five times that.
«Get out, you filthy, hideous. . . thing. Get out!»
«You don't like my face, Miss Robin? There ain't nothing you can do about that either.»
Suddenly he picked her up and carried her to a deep couch. He threw her down on the couch.
«Nothing,» he repeated.
Devoted to the principle of conspicuous waste, on which all society is based, Presteign of Presteign had fitted his Victorian mansion in Central Park with elevators, house phones, dumb-waiters and all the other laborsaving devices which jaunting had made obsolete. The servants in that giant gingerbread castle walked dutifully from room to room, opening and closing doors, and climbing stairs.
Presteign of Presteign arose, dressed with the aid of his valet and barber, descended to the morning room with the aid of an elevator, and breakfasted, assisted by a butler, footman, and waitresses. He left the morning room and entered his study. In an age when communication systems were virtually extinct-when it was far easier to jaunte directly to a man's office for a discussion than to telephone or telegraph-Presteign still maintained an antique telephone switchboard with an operator in his study.
«Get me Dagenham,» he said.
The operator struggled and at last put a call through to Dagenham Couriers, Inc. This was a hundred million credit organization of bonded jaunters guaranteed to perform any public or confidential service for any principal. Their fee was ~r i per mile. Dagenham guaranteed to get a courier around the world in eighty minutes.
Eighty seconds after Presteign's call was put through, a Dagenham courier appeared on the private jaunte stage outside Presteign's home, was identified and admitted through the jaunte-proof labyrinth behind the entrance. Like every member of the Dagenham staff, he was an M class jaunter, capable of teleporting a thousand miles a jump indefinitely, and familiar with thousands of jaunte co-ordinates. He was a senior specialist in chicanery and cajolery, trained to the incisive efficiency and boldness that characterized Dagenham Couriers and reflected the ruthlessness of its founder.
«Presteign?» he said, wasting no time on protocol.
«I want to hire Dagenham.»
«Ready, Presteign.»
«Not you. I want Saul Dagenham himself.»
«Mr. Dagenham no longer gives personal service for less than ~r 100,000.»
«The amount will be five times that.