cb.damnationgame-第30章

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n　the　state　of　the　Empire。　Large　sectors　of　the　corporation's　European　and　Far　Eastern　operations　had　already　been　sold　off　to　cut　their　losses；　receivers　had　been　called　in　to　a　couple　of　smaller　firms；　there　were　mass　redundancies　planned　for　some　of　the　chemical　plants　in　Germany　and　Scandinavia：　last…ditch　attempts　to　stave　off　closure　or　sale。　Joe　had　other　problems　on　his　mind；　however。　Empires　could　be　regained；　life　and　sanity　could　not。　He'd　sent　the　financiers　away；　and　the　government　think…tank　men：　sent　them　back　to　their　banks　and　their　report…lined　offices　in　Whitehall。　There　was　nothing　they　could　tell　him　that　he　wanted　to　hear。　No　graphs；　no　puter　displays；　no　predictions　interested　him。　In　the　five　weeks　since　the　beginning　of　the　Crisis　he　remembered　with　interest　only　one　conversation：　the　debate　he'd　had　with　Strauss。
　　He　liked　Strauss。　More　to　the　point；　he　trusted　Strauss；　and　that　was　a　modity　rarer　than　uranium　in　the　bazaar　Joe　bartered　in。　Toy's　instinct　about　Strauss　had　been　correct；　Bill　had　been　a　man　with　a　nose　for　integrity　in　others。　Sometimes；　particularly　when　the　vodka　filled　him　with　sentiment　and　remorse；　he　missed　Toy　badly。　But　he　was　damned　if　he'd　mourn：　that　had　never　been　his　style；　and　he　wasn't　about　to　start　now。　He　poured　himself　another　glass　of　vodka　and　raised　it。
　　〃To　the　Fall；〃　he　said；　and　drank。
　　He'd　worked　up　a　good　head　of　steam　in　the　white…tiled　room；　and　sitting　on　the　bench　in　the　half…light；　blotched　and　florid；　he　felt　like　some　fleshy　plant。　He　enjoyed　the　sensation　of　sweat　in　the　folds　of　his　belly；　at　his　armpits　and　groin；　simple　physical　stimuli　that　distracted　him　from　bad　thoughts。
　　Maybe　the　European　wouldn't　e　after　all；　he　thought。　Pray　God。
　　Somewhere　in　the　benighted　house　a　door　opened　and　closed；　but　the　drink　and　the　steam　made　him　feel　quite　aloof　from　events　elsewhere。　The　sauna　was　another　planet；　his；　and　his　alone。　He　put　the　drained　glass　down　on　the　tiles　and　closed　his　eyes；　hoping　to　drowse。
　　
　　Breer　went　to　the　gate。　There　was　a　hum　of　electricity　off　it；　and　the　sour　smell　of　power　in　the　air。
　　〃You're　strong；〃　the　European　said。　〃You　told　me　so。　Open　the　gate。〃　Breer　put　his　hand　on　the　wire。　The　boasts　were　true：　he　felt　only　the　slightest　tremor。　There　was　just　a　cooking　smell　and　the　sound　of　his　teeth　chattering　as　he　started　to　tear　the　gate　apart。　He　was　stronger　than　he'd　imagined。　There　was　no　fear　in　him；　and　its　absence　made　him　Herculean。　Now　the　dogs　had　started　to　bark　along　the　fence；　but　he　just　thought：　let　them　e。　He　wasn't　going　to　die。　Perhaps　he　would　never　die。
　　Laughing　like　a　loon；　he　ripped　the　gate　open；　the　hum　stopped　as　the　circuit　was　broken。　The　air　was　tinged　with　blue　smoke。
　　〃That's　good；〃　said　the　European。
　　Breer　tried　to　drop　the　section　of　wire　he　was　holding；　but　some　of　it　had　welded　itself　into　his　palm。　He　had　to　tear　it　out　with　his　other　hand。　He　looked　down　incredulously　at　his　seared　flesh。　It　was　blackened；　and　smelled　appetizing。　Soon；　surely；　it　must　begin　to　hurt　a　little。　No　man…not　even　a　man　like　him；　guiltless　and　sublimely　strong…could　receive　a　wound　like　this　and　not　suffer。　But　there　was　no　sensation。
　　Suddenly…out　of　the　dark…a　dog。
　　Mamoulian　backed　off；　fear　convulsing　him；　but　Breer　was　its　intended　victim。　A　few　paces　from　its　target　the　dog　leaped；　and　its　bulk　struck　Breer　center　chest。　The　impact　toppled　him　over　onto　his　back；　and　the　dog　was　swiftly　on　top　of　him；　jaws　snapping　at　his　throat。　Breer　was　armed　with　a　long…bladed　kitchen　knife；　but　he　seemed　uninterested　in　the　weapon；　though　it　was　within　easy　reach。　His　fat　face　broke　into　a　laugh　as　the　dog　scrabbled　to　get　access　to　the　man's　neck。　Breer　simply　took　hold　of　the　dog's　lower　jaw。　The　animal　snapped　down；　clamping　Breer's　hand　in　its　mouth。　Almost　immediately　it　realized　its　error。　Breer　reached　around　the　back　of　the　dog's　head　with　his　free　hand；　grabbed　a　fistful　of　fur　and　muscle；　and　jerked　neck　and　head　in　opposite　directions。　There　was　a　grinding　sound。　The　dog　roared　in　its　throat；　still　unwilling　to　let　go　of　its　executioner's　hand；　even　as　blood　sprang　from　between　its　clenched　teeth。　Breer　gave　the　dog　another　lethal　wrench。　Its　eyes　showed　white　and　its　limbs　stiffened。　It　slumped　down　onto　Breer's　chest；　dead。
　　Other　dogs　barked　in　the　distance；　responding　to　the　death…yelp　they'd　heard。　The　European　looked　nervously　to　right　and　left　along　the　fence。
　　〃Get　up！　Quickly！〃　Breer　loosed　his　hand　from　the　dog's　maw　and　shrugged　the　corpse　off。　He　was　still　laughing。
　　〃Easy；〃　he　said。
　　〃There's　more。〃　〃Take　me　to　them。〃　〃Maybe　too　many　for　you　to　take　on　all　at　once。〃　〃Was　this　the　one？〃　Breer　asked；　kicking　the　dead　dog　over　so　that　the　European　could　see　it　better。
　　〃The　one？〃　〃That　took　off　your　fingers？〃　〃I　don't　know；〃　the　European　replied；　avoiding　Breer's　blood…spattered　face　as　it　grinned　at　him；　eyes　sparkling　like　an　adolescent's　in　love。
　　〃The　kennels？〃　he　suggested。　〃Finish　them　off　there。〃　〃Why　not？〃　The　European　led　off　from　the　fence　in　the　direction　of　the　kennels。　Thanks　to　Carys；　the　layout　of　the　Sanctuary　was　as　familiar　to　him　as　the　palm　of　his　own　hand。　Breer　kept　pace　with　him；　stinking　of　blood　already；　a　spring　in　his　heavy　step。　He　had　seldom　felt　so　alive。
　　Life　was　so　good；　wasn't　it？　So　very　good。
　　
　　The　dogs　barked。
　　In　her　room　Carys　pulled　the　pillow　over　her　head　to　shut　out　the　din。　Tomorrow　she'd　pluck　up　her　courage　and　tell　Lillian　that　she　resented　being　kept　awake　half　the　night　by　hysterical　hounds。　If　she　was　ever　going　to　be　healthy　she'd　have　to　start　learning　the　rhythms　of　a　normal　life。　That　meant　going　about　her　business　while　the　sun　shone；　and　sleeping　at　night。
　　As　she　turned　over　to　find　a　portion　of　the　bed　that　was　still　cool　an　image　flashed　into　her　head。　It　was　gone　again　before　she　could　entirely　grasp　it　but　she　caught　enough　to　wake　her　with　a　start。　She　saw　a　man…faceless；　but　familiar…crossing　a　tract　of　grass。　At　his　heels；　a　tide　of　filth。　It　crept　close　behind　him；　in　blind　adoration；　its　waves　sibilant　as　snakes。　She　didn't　have　time　to　see　what　the　waves　contained；　and　perhaps　that　was　a　good　thing。
　　She　turned　over　a　third　time；　and　ordered　herself　to　forget　these　nonsenses。
　　Curiously；　the　dogs　had　stopped　barking。
　　
　　And　what；　after　all；　was　the　worst　he　could　do；　what　was　the　very　worst？　Whitehead　had　tried　on　this　particular　question　so　often　it　felt　like　a　familiar　coat。　The　possible　physical　torments　were　endless；　of　course。　Sometimes；　in　the　clammy　hug　of　a　three…A。M。　sweat；　he　would　deem　himself　worthy　of　them　all…if　a　man　could　die　a　dozen；　two　dozen　times…because　the　crimes　of　power　he　had　mitted　were　not　easily　paid　for。　The　things；　oh；　Jesus　in　Heaven；　the　things　he　had　done。
　　But　then；　damn　it；　who　would　not　have　crimes　to　confess；　when　the　time　came？　Who　would　not　have　acted　out　of　greed；　and　envy；　or　grappled　for　station；　and　having　gained　it；　been　absolute　in　authority　rather　than　relinquish　it？　He　couldn't　be　held　responsible　for　everything　the　corporation　had　done。　If；　once　in　a　decade；　a　medical　preparation　that　deformed　fetuses　had　slipped　onto　the　market；　was　he　to　blame　because　there'd　been　profit　made？　That　kind　of　moral　accounting　was　for　the　writers　of　revenge　fiction：　it　didn't　belong　in　the　real　world；　where　most　crimes　went　punished　only　with　wealth　and　influence；　where　the　worm　seldom　turned；　and　when　it　did　was　immediately　crushed；　where　the　best　a　man　could　hope　was　that　having　risen　to　his　ambition's　height　by　wit；　stealth　or　violence　there　was　some　smidgen　of　pleasure　in　the　view。　That　was　the　real　world；　and　the　European　was　as　familiar　with　its　ironies　as　he　was。　Hadn't　Mamoulian　shown　him　so　much　of　it　himself？　How；　in　all　conscience；　could　the　European　turn　around　and　punish　his　student　for　learning　his　lessons　too　well？
　　I'll　probably　die　in　a　warm　bed；　Whitehead　thought；　with　curtains　partially　drawn　against　a　yellow　spring　sky；　and　surrounded　by　admirers。　〃There　is　nothing　to　fear；〃　he　said　aloud。　The　steam　billowed。　The　tiles；　laid　with　an　obsessive's　precision；　sweated　with　him：　but　coldly；　where　he　was　hot。
　　Nothing　to　fear。
　　
　　36
　　From　the　door　of　the　doghouse　Mamoulian　watched　Breer　at　work。　It　was　an　efficient　slaughter　this　time；　not　the　trial　of　strength　he'd　had　with　the　dog　at　the　gate。　The　fat　man　simply　opened　the　cages　and　then　the　throats　of　the　dogs　one　by　one；　using　his　long…bladed　knife。　Cornered　in　their　cells　the　dogs　were　easy　prey。　All　they　could　do　was　turn　and　turn；　snapping　uselessly　at　their　assassin；　somehow　knowing　the　battle　was　lost　before　it　was　truly　entered。　They　dropped　turds　as　they　slumped　down；　slashed　necks　and　flanks　spurting；　brown　eyes　turned　up　to　look　at　Breer　like　painted　saints。　He　killed　the　pups　too；　tearing　them　from　their　mother's　lap　and　cracking　their　heads　open　in　his　hand。　Bella　fought　back　with　more　vehemence　than　the　other　dogs；　determined　to　inflict　as　much　damage　as　she　could　on　the　killer　before　she　too　was　killed。　He　returned　the　favor；　mutilating　her　body　after　he'd　silenced　her；　wounds　in　return　for　the　wounds　she'd　given　him。　Once　the　clamor　was　over；　and　the　only　movement　in　the　cages　was　the　twitch　of　a　leg　or　the　splash　of　a　bladder　giving　vent；　Breer　pronounced　himself　finished。　They　went　together　toward　the　house。
　　There　were　two　more　dogs　here；　the　last　of　them。　The　Razor…Eater　made　short　work　of　them　both。　By　now　he　looked　more　like　an　abattoir　worker　than　a　sometime　librarian。　The　European　thanked　him。　It　had　been　easier　than　he'd　expected。
　　〃I　have　business　inside　the　house　now；〃　he　told　Breer。
　　〃Do　you　want　me　to　e？〃　〃No。　But　you　could　open　the　door　for　me；　if　you　would。〃　Breer　went　to　the　back　door　and　punched　out　the　glass；　then　reached　through　and　unlocked　it；　letting　Mamoulian　into　the　kitchen。
　　〃Thank　you。　Wait　here　for　me。〃　The　European　disappeared　into　the　blue　gloom　of　the　interior。　Breer　watched　him　go；　and　once　his　master　was　out　of　sight；　entered　the　Sanctuary　after　him；　blood　and　smiles　wreathing　his　face。
　　
　　Though　the　pall　of　steam　muffled　the　sound；　Whitehead　had　the　impression　that　somebody　was　moving　around　in　the　house。　Strauss；　probably：　the　man　had　bee　restless　recently。　Whitehead　let　his　eyes　drift　closed　again。
　　Somewhere　close　by；　he　heard　a　door　opening　and　closing；　the　door　of　the　antechamber　beyond　the　steam　room。　He　stood　up；　and　quizzed　the　gloom。
　　〃Marty？〃　There　was　no　answer　from　Marty　or　anybody　else。　The　certainty　of　having　heard　a　door　at　all　faltered。　It　wasn't　always　easy　to　judge　sound　here。　Nor　vision。　The　steam　had　thickened　considerably；　he　could　no　longer　see　across　to　the　other　side　of　the　room。
　　〃Is　there　somebody　there？〃　he　asked。
　　The　steam　was　a　dead；　gray　wall　in　front　of　his　eyes。　He　cursed　himself　for　letting　it　get　so　heavy。
　　〃Martin？〃　he　said　again。　Though　there　was　neither　sight　nor　sound　to　confirm　his　suspicions；　he　knew　he　wasn't　alone。　Somebody　was　very　close；　and　yet　not　answering。　When　he　spoke　he　reached；　inch　by　tremulous　inch；　across　the　tiles　to　the　towel　folded　at　his　side。　His　fingers　investigated　the