НОВЫЙ РАССКАЗ ПРО ПЕНДЕРГАСТА, АЩАЩАЩ, Я НЕ МОГУ, ЧТО ВЫ ДЕЛАЕТЕ СО МНОЙ, ЗВЕРИ
И ОНИ НЕ ПРОСТО О ЧЁМ-ТО ДОГАДЫВАЮТСЯ, ОНИ ЗНАААААЮЮЮЮТ
И СТЕБУТСЯ САМИ НАД СОБОЙ
И ДИОГЕЕЕЕЕН

“No, Aloysius,” Diogenes said with a smile. “That’s all part of your fantasy. Your illness. Think back on your life, or what you believe has been your life. What is your profession?”

Pendergast hesitated. “I’m . . . an FBI agent.”

Another gentle smile. “Okay. Now think about that. We know all about this ‘life’ of yours. You’ve spent the last months talking about it with Dr. Augustine. We’ve heard all about the insane exploits, the wild encounters. We’ve heard about all the people you’ve supposedly killed, about your narrow escapes. We’ve heard about genetic monsters eating people’s brains and infantile serial killers living in caves. We’ve heard about underground mutant armies and Nazi breeding programs. We’ve heard about a certain young lady who is a hundred and forty years old . . . That, Aloysius, is the fantasy world you’re finally awakening from. We’re real; that crazy world is not.”

As Diogenes rattled these items off, each one suddenly resonated in Pendergast’s memory, bursting like a firework.

“No,” he said. “It’s exactly the opposite. You’re twisting everything. You’re not real; that other world is real.”

Helen leaned over, her violet eyes looking into his. “Do you really think the FBI, the buttoned-down FBI, would allow one of its agents to run amok, killing people willy-nilly?” She spoke calmly, her voice cool and rational. “How could all that be real? Think back on these so-called adventures of yours. Could one man, one person, really experience all that and live through it?"

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