- I could not, I could not, I could not! - He shouted in madness. - It is stronger, it is stronger - his hands began to tremble, pupils widened. - I'm not a Bluebeard! That's why I could not.
Then he said something unintelligible, sometimes shouting the phrase "Yellow Submarine" and "Save the Queen."
Several minutes Sapte Boyle, having closed his eyes, has been sitting on a chair, nervously tapping his knuckles on the table. Then he opened the door of the refrigerator and poured a half of jill Irish whiskey Cooley Distillery with a label St. Patrick. "It would be better to shoot him at the attempt to escape" - Guard mentally complained about his fate and called "John," Sir Robert Sawyer, the Head of MI6, Secret Intelligence Service.
- John.
- Is it you?
- Yes. Just on business. It seems to me that this is one of those you are looking for.
- Do you mean the incident at the fair of flowers?
- Exactly!
- For some reason, I thought so. Tell me.
- I interviewed him. Come here.
Ten minutes later, Robert Sawyer, quietly left his bed, he was going to the Palace, where he met and instructed staffers from Vauxhall Cross 85. They arrived to the entrance of the Palace, where they were already waiting Sapte Boyle.
- Please, let my gentlemen come in. There can be complications, said Robert.
Two minutes later, the men were next to the small police station of the Palace. The door was opened for some reason. Sapta felt unpleasant chill. In the closet, where used to sit a constable, was empty. On the table there was a warm cup of strong tea. Detectives rushed to the iron cage. A heavy prison door opened. Another policeman was cooling and unnaturally sitting on the iron bed surprised looked with unseeing eyes at the infinity.
Suddenly, it dawned upon Sapta that the day became the base for the second life of the Kingdom, and the spark of hope filled with warmth, goodwill and the future.
- Let him go - suddenly he said aloofly without addressing anybody.
*
The storm covered the half of the Atlantic. The plane was carefully avoiding grandiose storm clouds. Through the window, in rays of light, one could see bright sparks of the infinite blue ocean. They were changing, huge whitecaps which disappeared in ten minutes without a trace.
The history of mankind passed like those huge shafts. Every ten years there appeared a shaft gaining its highest level, and like a strong terrible storm the tops turned into the violent white foam, to make some noise and to turn into calm waters.
The entire human race can be placed in a one big city. Influence of the Adam sons alike an insignificant thin layer of the almost invisible the surface over of the globe. It will always happen and a man will never be able to leave that wave, the finest plane compressed between the truth and the lie, wealth and poverty, power and goodness, and birth and murder of demons and angels. They give incredible strength, stars energy, love, and the first cries of a newborn for the creation of this fragile sphere contradicting the whole mental shalmeser to the chaos, famine and death to a man could say the key word between the heaven and the earth. And when you assume that does not yours, simplify more complex and moral beings, measuring everybody against your own yardstick, this finest sphere becomes thin, simpler, there emerge moral holes, leading to degradation, mass drunkenness and vices. And only return yourself to the inner moral imperative, moral idealism, cleansing yourselves of the internal crimes can recover and stop the destruction of the thinnest life layer.
"Do not kill" - thought Colonel. "The death, having punished itself cruelly kills pity and punishes beautiful earthly creatures sophisticatedly and ruthlessly. The human mass murders or emasculation of the multi-structural life always leads to irreversible consequences which can not be restored even by the gods. You can not be the only element, and build the universe with it. The world is built on many multi-level components. An attempt to get the death is alike a feeble effort to privatize the power of the world. It always leads to the bitter futility.
Part 2
Already in the afternoon, together with Thomas they reached Wurzburg. Having driven for an hour by taxi along the highway, they found a neat house of Uncle Rosenberg. Colonel rang the bell. There was silence.
- How old is he? - Asked Thomas.
- Ninety-six - muttered Dux.
- Du bist Schwanz - angrily muttered Thomas. - Come on.
- Wait a minute.
They have been sitting for ten minutes on the porch, swinging their legs. The silence was finally interrupted by a click and a hoarse cough. A senile cracking voice drawled with "o" said:
- Rosenberg.
- It's neighbor from the street in Kirov - bleated Colonel in a youthful voice in Russian. - I'm from countryside.
- I told you, you are Schwanz – Dux turned to Thomas with the widest happy smile.
Finally, from the darkened corridor came Uncle Rosenberg.
- Rona!
Dux in his joy hugged Uncle Rosenberg so strong, that something cracked at the last and he struggled for breath.
- Rona, you've always been an asshole.
Colonel realized that Uncle Rosenberg, firstly, didn’t see anything and secondly, that his only identification was Rona. That’s why Dux decided not to dispel allusions. In a childhood, Rona was a lucid mind, with a sense of humor, creative. He was the first in the village, who began eating ground squirrels’ meat living in his garden. Rona extirpated the rodents feeding the neighbors. Once, late at night he came covered in blood. Lilka, having seen him in the moonlight, stood stilclass="underline"
- I killed a man - said Rona.
She fainted away.
Neighbors came. It turned out that Rona smeared with the chicken blood. The neighbor Uncle Rosenberg then made a demonstration of the corporal punishment.
Men sat in the kitchen. Uncle Rosenberg hardly put a kettle in the curtained off darkened kitchen.
- And how is Sasha Steinbrecher?
- He put on weight.
- And what about Webers?
- These two died.
- Is it true that Kock got so drunk at the final rehearsal that the whole village went almost mad, listening for the whole night a speech of the famous Bulgakov's plays?
- Yes, it’s true!
- Uncle Rosenberg, I'm on business.
The old man poured everybody tea and took put of the pack some tasty pretzels with saffron.
- Do you have the relative in Germany who knows a lot about Nibiru. Help me to meet him.
Uncle Rosenberg's changed countenance, kept silent for a long time, and then crackling giggled.
- It's a fairy tale.
- Okay, we'll go.
Uncle Rosenberg took out thick round glasses and suddenly became serious. He began to observe attentively those kids.
- And you're not Rona.
- I’m a friend of Rona.
- Are you Russian?
- I’m a Chinese man!
Uncle Rosenberg giggled.
- Who is that?
- Thomas - sadly muttered Dux.
- Why is he silent?
- He is a German from Munich.
- Schwanzverlenger – coughed the skeleton.