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The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
Страница: 84 из 164He kissed the nurses, made drunk the attendants, pestered the patients with gifts, littered the corridors withmoney, and abruptly disappeared when the happy rioting reached such heights that the police had to be called. Much later it was discovered that a patient had disappeared too, despite the fact that she had been under sedation and was incapable of jaunting. As a matter of fact she departed from the hospital inside Santa's sack.
Foyle jaunted with her over his shoulder to the hospital grounds. There, in a quiet grove of pines under a frosty sky, he helped her out of the sack. She wore severe white hospital pajamas and was beautiful. He removed his own costume, watching the girl intently, waiting to see if she would recognize him and remember him.
She was alarmed and confused; her telesending was like heat lightning:
«My God! Who is he? What's happened? The music. The uproar. Why kidnapped in a sack? Drunks slurring on trombones. 'Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.' Adeste Fidelis. What's he want from me? Who is he?»
«I'm Fourmyle of Ceres,» Foyle said.
«What? Who? Fourmyle of…? Yes, of course. The buffoon. The bourgeois gentilhomme. Vulgarity. Imbecility. Obscenity. The Four Mile Circus. My God! Am I telesending? Can you hear me?»
«I hear you, Miss Wednesbury,» Foyle said quietly.
«What have you done? Why? What do you want with me? I…”
«I want you to look at me.»
«Bon jour, Madame. Into my sack, Madame. Ecco! Look at me. I'm looking,» Robin said, trying to control the jangle of her thoughts. She gazed up into his face without recognition. «It's a face. I've seen so many like it. The faces of men, oh God! The features of masculinity. Everyman in rut. Will God never save us from brute desire?»
«My rutting season's over, Miss Wednesbury.»
«I'm sorry you heard that. I'm terrified, naturally. I…You know me?»
«I know you.»
«We've met before?» She scrutinized him closely, but still without recognition. Deep down inside Foyle there was a surge of triumph. If this woman of all women failed to remember him he was safe, provided he kept blood and brains and face under control.
«We've never met,» he said. «I've heard of you. I want something from you. That's why we're here; to talk about it. If you don't like my offer you can go back to the hospital.»
«You want something? But I've got nothing. . . nothing. Nothing's left but shame and…Oh God! Why did the suicide fail? Why couldn't I…”
«So that's it?» Foyle interrupted softly. «You tried to commit suicide, eh? That accounts for the gas explosion that opened the building. . .
Foyle jaunted with her over his shoulder to the hospital grounds. There, in a quiet grove of pines under a frosty sky, he helped her out of the sack. She wore severe white hospital pajamas and was beautiful. He removed his own costume, watching the girl intently, waiting to see if she would recognize him and remember him.
She was alarmed and confused; her telesending was like heat lightning:
«My God! Who is he? What's happened? The music. The uproar. Why kidnapped in a sack? Drunks slurring on trombones. 'Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.' Adeste Fidelis. What's he want from me? Who is he?»
«I'm Fourmyle of Ceres,» Foyle said.
«What? Who? Fourmyle of…? Yes, of course. The buffoon. The bourgeois gentilhomme. Vulgarity. Imbecility. Obscenity. The Four Mile Circus. My God! Am I telesending? Can you hear me?»
«I hear you, Miss Wednesbury,» Foyle said quietly.
«What have you done? Why? What do you want with me? I…”
«I want you to look at me.»
«Bon jour, Madame. Into my sack, Madame. Ecco! Look at me. I'm looking,» Robin said, trying to control the jangle of her thoughts. She gazed up into his face without recognition. «It's a face. I've seen so many like it. The faces of men, oh God! The features of masculinity. Everyman in rut. Will God never save us from brute desire?»
«My rutting season's over, Miss Wednesbury.»
«I'm sorry you heard that. I'm terrified, naturally. I…You know me?»
«I know you.»
«We've met before?» She scrutinized him closely, but still without recognition. Deep down inside Foyle there was a surge of triumph. If this woman of all women failed to remember him he was safe, provided he kept blood and brains and face under control.
«We've never met,» he said. «I've heard of you. I want something from you. That's why we're here; to talk about it. If you don't like my offer you can go back to the hospital.»
«You want something? But I've got nothing. . . nothing. Nothing's left but shame and…Oh God! Why did the suicide fail? Why couldn't I…”
«So that's it?» Foyle interrupted softly. «You tried to commit suicide, eh? That accounts for the gas explosion that opened the building. . .