JК
The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
Страница: 59 из 164I'd put him in the room next to the cyclops girl…”
«The zoo is out. That's definite.»
«All right, dear. But why are you worried about Foyle being recaptured? It won't have anything to do with you.»
«Why should you worry about me worrying? I'm asking you to do a job. I'm paying for the job.»
«It'll be expensive, dear, and I'm fond of you. I'm trying to save you money.»
«No you're not.»
«Then I'm curious.»
«Then let's say I'm grateful. He helped me; now I'm helping him.» Baker smiled cynically. «Then let's help him by giving him a brand new face.»
«I thought so. You want his face cleaned up because you're interested in his face.»
«Damn you, Baker, will you do the job or not?»
«It'll cost five thousand.»
«Break that down.»
«A thousand to synthesize the acid. Three thousand for the surgery. And one thousand for…”
«Your curiosity?»
«No, dear.» Baker smiled again. «A thousand for the anesthetist.»
«Why anesthesia?»
Baker reopened the ancient text. «It looks like a painful operation. You know how they tattoo? They take a needle, dip it in dye, and hammer it into the skin. To bleach that dye out I'll have to go over his face with a needle, pore by pore, and hammer in the indigotin disulphonic. It'll hurt.»
Jisbella's eyes flashed. «Can you do it without the dope?»
«I can, dear, but Foyle…”
«To hell with Foyle. I'm paying four thousand. No dope, Baker. Let Foyle suffer.»
«Jiz! You don't know what you're letting him in for.»
«I know. Let him suffer.» She laughed so furiously that she startled Baker. «Let his face make him suffer too.»
Baker's Freak Factory occupied a round brick three-story building that had once been the roundhouse in a suburban railway yard before jaunting ended the need for suburban railroads. The ancient ivy-covered roundhouse was alongside the Trenton rocket pits, and the rear windows looked out on the mouths of the pits thrusting their anti-gray beams upward, and Baker's patients could amuse themselves watching the spaceships riding silently up and down the beams, their portholes blazing, recognition signals blinking, their hulls rippling with St. Elmo's fire as the atmosphere carried off the electrostatic charges built up in outer space.
The basement floor of the factory contained Baker's zoo of anatomical curiosities, natural freaks and monsters bought, and/or abducted.
«The zoo is out. That's definite.»
«All right, dear. But why are you worried about Foyle being recaptured? It won't have anything to do with you.»
«Why should you worry about me worrying? I'm asking you to do a job. I'm paying for the job.»
«It'll be expensive, dear, and I'm fond of you. I'm trying to save you money.»
«No you're not.»
«Then I'm curious.»
«Then let's say I'm grateful. He helped me; now I'm helping him.» Baker smiled cynically. «Then let's help him by giving him a brand new face.»
«I thought so. You want his face cleaned up because you're interested in his face.»
«Damn you, Baker, will you do the job or not?»
«It'll cost five thousand.»
«Break that down.»
«A thousand to synthesize the acid. Three thousand for the surgery. And one thousand for…”
«Your curiosity?»
«No, dear.» Baker smiled again. «A thousand for the anesthetist.»
«Why anesthesia?»
Baker reopened the ancient text. «It looks like a painful operation. You know how they tattoo? They take a needle, dip it in dye, and hammer it into the skin. To bleach that dye out I'll have to go over his face with a needle, pore by pore, and hammer in the indigotin disulphonic. It'll hurt.»
Jisbella's eyes flashed. «Can you do it without the dope?»
«I can, dear, but Foyle…”
«To hell with Foyle. I'm paying four thousand. No dope, Baker. Let Foyle suffer.»
«Jiz! You don't know what you're letting him in for.»
«I know. Let him suffer.» She laughed so furiously that she startled Baker. «Let his face make him suffer too.»
Baker's Freak Factory occupied a round brick three-story building that had once been the roundhouse in a suburban railway yard before jaunting ended the need for suburban railroads. The ancient ivy-covered roundhouse was alongside the Trenton rocket pits, and the rear windows looked out on the mouths of the pits thrusting their anti-gray beams upward, and Baker's patients could amuse themselves watching the spaceships riding silently up and down the beams, their portholes blazing, recognition signals blinking, their hulls rippling with St. Elmo's fire as the atmosphere carried off the electrostatic charges built up in outer space.
The basement floor of the factory contained Baker's zoo of anatomical curiosities, natural freaks and monsters bought, and/or abducted.