[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
there in his cot through the night doing his own thing - whatever that might
be.
Even now his will to stay awake and be a part of the world was strong, but his
yawning told his mother that he couldn't. With dawn an hour away, Harry was
going to have to go to sleep. The world would have to wait. No matter how fast
your mind grows up, your body goes more slowly.
As his baby son went to sleep, Harry Snr found himself free and was struck
with a thought as strange as any he'd ever had, even in his thoroughly strange
existence.
'He's leeching on me!'
he thought.
'The little rascal's into my mind, into my experiences.
He can explore my stuff because there's lots of it, but I can't touch him
because there's nothing in there - yet!'
He put the extraordinary idea to the back of his mind. Now that Harry Jnr had
released him he had places to go, people - dead people - to talk to. There
were things he knew which he was unique in knowing. He knew, for instance,
that the dead inhabit another sphere; also that in their lonely
nether-existence they go on doing all the things they've done in life.
The writers write masterpieces they can never publish, each line perfectly
composed, each paragraph polished, every story a gem. Where time isn't a
problem and deadlines don't exist, things get done right. The architects plot
their cities of the mind, beautiful aerial constructs flung across fantastic
worlds and spanning sculpted oceans and continents, each brick and spire and
sky-riding highway immaculately positioned, no smallest detail missing or
botched. The mathematicians continue to explore the Formulae of the Universe,
reducing THE ALL to symbols they can never put on paper, for which men in the
Page 136
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
corporeal world should be grateful. And the Great Thinkers carry on thinking
their great thoughts, which far outweigh any they thought in life.
That had been the way of it with the Great Majority. Then Harry Keogh,
Necroscope, had come along.
The dead had taken to Harry at once; he had given their existence new meaning.
Before
Harry, each one of them had inhabited a world consisting of his own
incorporeal thoughts, without contact with the rest. They had been like houses
with no doors or windows, no telephones. But
Harry had connected them up. It made no difference to the living (who simply
weren't aware) but it made a great deal of difference to the dead.
Möbius had been one such, mathematician and thinker both, and he had shown
Harry Keogh how to use his Mobius continuum. He'd done so gladly, for like all
of the dead he'd quickly come to love the Necroscope. And the Möbius continuum
had given Harry access to times and places and minds beyond the reach of any
other intelligence in all of man's history.
Now Harry knew of a man whose one obsession in life tad been the myths and
legends and lore of the vampire. His name was Ladislau Giresci. How was it
going for him now, Harry wondered, in the aftermath of his murder? Max Batu
had killed him with his evil eye, for no good reason other than that Dragosani
had ordered it. Killed him, yes, but not Giresci's life-long penchant for the
legend of the vampire. What had been an obsession in life must certainly have
continued afterwards.
Harry could no longer make any headway with Thibor, and Thibor would not let
him get through to Dragosani. His next best bet had to be Ladislau Giresci.
How to reach him, however, was a different matter. Harry had never met the
Romanian in life; he did not know the ground where
Giresci's spirit lay; he must rely on the dead to supply him with directions,
see him on his way.
Across the road from Brenda's flat - once Harry and Brenda's flat - there
sprawled a graveyard hundreds of years old, containing a large number of
Harry's friends. He knew most of them personally from previous conversations.
Now he drifted towards the lines of markers and occasionally leaning
tombstones, his mind drawn by the minds of the dead where they lay in their
graves communing. They sensed him at once, knew that it was him. Who else
could it be?
'Harry!'
said their spokesman, an ex-railway engineer who'd lived all his life in
Stockton, until he died in 1938.
'It's good to talk to you again. Nice to know you haven't forgotten us.'
'How are things with you?' Harry inquired. 'Still designing your trains?'
The other came aglow in a moment.
'I have designed the train!'
he answered.
'Do you want to hear about it?' [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl akte20.pev.pl
there in his cot through the night doing his own thing - whatever that might
be.
Even now his will to stay awake and be a part of the world was strong, but his
yawning told his mother that he couldn't. With dawn an hour away, Harry was
going to have to go to sleep. The world would have to wait. No matter how fast
your mind grows up, your body goes more slowly.
As his baby son went to sleep, Harry Snr found himself free and was struck
with a thought as strange as any he'd ever had, even in his thoroughly strange
existence.
'He's leeching on me!'
he thought.
'The little rascal's into my mind, into my experiences.
He can explore my stuff because there's lots of it, but I can't touch him
because there's nothing in there - yet!'
He put the extraordinary idea to the back of his mind. Now that Harry Jnr had
released him he had places to go, people - dead people - to talk to. There
were things he knew which he was unique in knowing. He knew, for instance,
that the dead inhabit another sphere; also that in their lonely
nether-existence they go on doing all the things they've done in life.
The writers write masterpieces they can never publish, each line perfectly
composed, each paragraph polished, every story a gem. Where time isn't a
problem and deadlines don't exist, things get done right. The architects plot
their cities of the mind, beautiful aerial constructs flung across fantastic
worlds and spanning sculpted oceans and continents, each brick and spire and
sky-riding highway immaculately positioned, no smallest detail missing or
botched. The mathematicians continue to explore the Formulae of the Universe,
reducing THE ALL to symbols they can never put on paper, for which men in the
Page 136
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
corporeal world should be grateful. And the Great Thinkers carry on thinking
their great thoughts, which far outweigh any they thought in life.
That had been the way of it with the Great Majority. Then Harry Keogh,
Necroscope, had come along.
The dead had taken to Harry at once; he had given their existence new meaning.
Before
Harry, each one of them had inhabited a world consisting of his own
incorporeal thoughts, without contact with the rest. They had been like houses
with no doors or windows, no telephones. But
Harry had connected them up. It made no difference to the living (who simply
weren't aware) but it made a great deal of difference to the dead.
Möbius had been one such, mathematician and thinker both, and he had shown
Harry Keogh how to use his Mobius continuum. He'd done so gladly, for like all
of the dead he'd quickly come to love the Necroscope. And the Möbius continuum
had given Harry access to times and places and minds beyond the reach of any
other intelligence in all of man's history.
Now Harry knew of a man whose one obsession in life tad been the myths and
legends and lore of the vampire. His name was Ladislau Giresci. How was it
going for him now, Harry wondered, in the aftermath of his murder? Max Batu
had killed him with his evil eye, for no good reason other than that Dragosani
had ordered it. Killed him, yes, but not Giresci's life-long penchant for the
legend of the vampire. What had been an obsession in life must certainly have
continued afterwards.
Harry could no longer make any headway with Thibor, and Thibor would not let
him get through to Dragosani. His next best bet had to be Ladislau Giresci.
How to reach him, however, was a different matter. Harry had never met the
Romanian in life; he did not know the ground where
Giresci's spirit lay; he must rely on the dead to supply him with directions,
see him on his way.
Across the road from Brenda's flat - once Harry and Brenda's flat - there
sprawled a graveyard hundreds of years old, containing a large number of
Harry's friends. He knew most of them personally from previous conversations.
Now he drifted towards the lines of markers and occasionally leaning
tombstones, his mind drawn by the minds of the dead where they lay in their
graves communing. They sensed him at once, knew that it was him. Who else
could it be?
'Harry!'
said their spokesman, an ex-railway engineer who'd lived all his life in
Stockton, until he died in 1938.
'It's good to talk to you again. Nice to know you haven't forgotten us.'
'How are things with you?' Harry inquired. 'Still designing your trains?'
The other came aglow in a moment.
'I have designed the train!'
he answered.
'Do you want to hear about it?' [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]