DrJekyll: переводы

→Fifth Avenue, New York City
1945
Sullivan, chief of security, found the Great Man standing in front of the
enormous window in his corporate office. The boss was silhouetted
against city lights. The only other illumination was from a green-shaded
lamp on the big glass-topped desk across the room, so that the Great Man
was mostly in shadow, hands in the pockets of his crisply tailored suit
jacket as he gazed broodingly out at the skyline.
It was eight o’clock, and Chief Sullivan, a tired middle-aged man in a
rain-dampened suit, badly wanted to go home, kick off his shoes, and
listen to the fight on the radio. But the Great Man often worked late, and
he’d been waiting for these two reports. One report, in particular, Sullivan
wanted to have done with—the one from Japan. It was a report that
made him want a stiff drink, and fast. But he knew the Great Man
wouldn’t offer him one.
“The Great Man” was how Sullivan thought of his boss—one of the
richest, most powerful men in the world. The term was both sarcastic and
serious, and Sullivan kept it to himself—the Great Man was vain and
quick to sense the slightest disrespect. Yet sometimes it seemed the tycoon
was casting about for a friend he could take to heart. Sullivan was
not that man. People rarely liked him much. Something about ex-cops.
“Well, Sullivan?” the Great Man asked, not turning from the window.
“Do you have them?”
“I have them both, sir.”
“Let’s have the report on the strikes first, get it out of the way. The other
one…” He shook his head. “That’ll be like hiding from a hurricane in a
cellar. We’ll have to dig the cellar first, so to speak…”
Sullivan wondered what he meant by that cellar remark, but he let it
go. “The strikes—they’re still going on at the Kentucky mines and the
Mississippi refinery.”
The Great Man grimaced. His shoulders, angularly padded in the current
style, slumped ever so slightly. “We’ve got to be tougher about this,
Sullivan. For the country’s good, as well as our own.”
“Sir—I have sent in strikebreakers. I have sent Pinkerton men to get
names on the strike leaders, see if we can … get something on them.
But—these people are persistent. A hard-nosed bunch.”
“Have you been out there in person? Did you go to Kentucky—or Mississippi,
Chief? Hm? You need not await permission from me to take personal
action—not on this! Unions … they had their own little army in
Russia—they called them Workers Militias. Do you know who these
strikers are? They are agents of the Reds, Sullivan! Soviet agents! And
what is it they demand? Why, better wages and work conditions. What is
that but Socialism? Leeches. I had no need of unions! I made my own
way.”
Sullivan knew that the Great Man had the benefit of luck—he’d struck
oil, as a young man—but it was true he’d invested brilliantly.
“I’ll … see to them myself, sir.”
The Great Man reached out and touched the glass wall, remembering.
“I came here from Russia as a boy—the Bolshies had just taken the place
over … We barely got out alive. I won’t see that sickness spread.”
“No sir.”
“And—the other report? It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Both cities are almost entirely destroyed. One bomb apiece.”
The Great Man shook his head in wonder. “Just one bomb—for a whole
city…”
Sullivan stepped closer, opened one of the envelopes, handed over the
photographs. The Great Man held the glossy photographs to the window
so he could make them out in the twinkling light of the skyline. They were
fairly sharp black-and-white snaps of the devastation of Hiroshima,
mostly seen from the air. The city lights were caught on their glossy surface,
as if somehow the thrusting boldness of the New York skyline had itself
destroyed Hiroshima.
“Our man in the State Department smuggled this out for us,” Sullivan
went on. “Some in the target cities were … atomized. Blown to bits.
9/369
Hundreds of thousands dead or dying in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. A
great many more dying from…” He read aloud from one of the reports
he’d brought. “‘Flash burns, radiation burns and trauma … It is expected
that an equal amount will be dead of radiation sickness and possibly cancer
in another twelve months or so.’”
“Cancer? Caused by this weapon?”
“Yes sir. It’s not yet confirmed, but—based on past experiments … they
say it’s likely.”
“I see. Are we indeed certain the Soviets are developing such
weapons?”
“They’re working on it.”
The Great Man snorted ruefully. “Two gigantic empires, two great octopi
struggling with one another—and equipped with monstrous
weapons. Just one bomb to destroy an entire city! These bombs will only
get bigger, and more powerful. What do you suppose will happen, in
time, Sullivan?”
“Atomic war is what some are saying.”
“I feel certain of it! They’ll destroy us all! Still … there is another possibility.
For some of us.”
“Yes sir?”
“I despise what this civilization is becoming, Sullivan. First the
Bolsheviks and then—Roosevelt. Truman, carrying on much of what
Roosevelt began. Little men on the backs of great ones. It will only stop
when real men stand up and say ‘no more’!”
Sullivan nodded, shivering. At times the Great Man could convey the
power of his inner conviction, almost like a lightning rod transmitting a
mighty burst of electricity. There was an undeniable power around him …
After a moment the Great Man looked curiously at Sullivan, as if wondering
how much he could be trusted. At last his employer said, “My
mind is made up, Sullivan. I shall move ahead on a project I was toying
with. It will no longer be a toy—it will be a glorious reality. It entails great
risk—but it must be done. And you may as well know now: it will take,
perhaps, every penny I have to make it happen…”
10/369
Sullivan blinked. Every penny? What extreme was his boss going to
now?
The Great Man chuckled, evidently enjoying Sullivan’s astonishment.
“Oh yes! At first it was an experiment. Little more than a hypothesis—a
game. I already have the drawings for a smaller version—but it could be
bigger. Much bigger! It is the solution to a gigantic problem…”
“The union problem?” Sullivan asked, puzzled.
“No—well, yes, in the long run. Unions too! But I was thinking of a
more pressing problem: the potential destruction of civilization! The
problem, Sullivan, is the inevitability of Atomic war. That inevitability
calls for a gigantic solution. I’ve sent out explorers—and I’ve picked the
spot. But I wasn’t sure I would ever give it the go-ahead. Not until today.”
He peered again at the photos of the devastation, turning them to catch
the light better. “Not until this. We can escape, you and I—and certain
others. We can escape from the mutual destruction of the mad little men
who scuttle about the halls of government power. We are going to build a
new world in the one place these madmen cannot touch…”
“Yes sir.” Sullivan decided not to ask for an explanation. Better to just
hope that whatever overblown scheme the Great Man was caught up in,
he’d drop it, in the end, when he faced the full cost. “Anything more, sir?
I mean—tonight? If I’m going to break up those strikes, I’d better leave
early in the morning…”
“Yes, yes go and get some rest. But there’ll be no rest for me tonight. I
must plan…”
So saying, Andrew Ryan turned away from the window, crossed the
room—and tossed the photos aside. The destruction of Hiroshima and
Nagasaki skidded across the glass-topped desk.

→Fifth Avenue, New York City
1945
Sullivan, chief of security, found the Great Man standing in front of the
enormous window in his corporate office. The boss was silhouetted
against city lights. The only other illumination was from a green-shaded
lamp on the big glass-topped desk across the room, so that the Great Man
was mostly in shadow, hands in the pockets of his crisply tailored suit
jacket as he gazed broodingly out at the skyline.
It was eight o’clock, and Chief Sullivan, a tired middle-aged man in a
rain-dampened suit, badly wanted to go home, kick off his shoes, and
listen to the fight on the radio. But the Great Man often worked late, and
he’d been waiting for these two reports. One report, in particular, Sullivan
wanted to have done with—the one from Japan. It was a report that
made him want a stiff drink, and fast. But he knew the Great Man
wouldn’t offer him one.
“The Great Man” was how Sullivan thought of his boss—one of the
richest, most powerful men in the world. The term was both sarcastic and
serious, and Sullivan kept it to himself—the Great Man was vain and
quick to sense the slightest disrespect. Yet sometimes it seemed the tycoon
was casting about for a friend he could take to heart. Sullivan was
not that man. People rarely liked him much. Something about ex-cops.
“Well, Sullivan?” the Great Man asked, not turning from the window.
“Do you have them?”
“I have them both, sir.”
“Let’s have the report on the strikes first, get it out of the way. The other
one…” He shook his head. “That’ll be like hiding from a hurricane in a
cellar. We’ll have to dig the cellar first, so to speak…”
Sullivan wondered what he meant by that cellar remark, but he let it
go. “The strikes—they’re still going on at the Kentucky mines and the
Mississippi refinery.”
The Great Man grimaced. His shoulders, angularly padded in the current
style, slumped ever so slightly. “We’ve got to be tougher about this,
Sullivan. For the country’s good, as well as our own.”
“Sir—I have sent in strikebreakers. I have sent Pinkerton men to get
names on the strike leaders, see if we can … get something on them.
But—these people are persistent. A hard-nosed bunch.”
“Have you been out there in person? Did you go to Kentucky—or Mississippi,
Chief? Hm? You need not await permission from me to take personal
action—not on this! Unions … they had their own little army in
Russia—they called them Workers Militias. Do you know who these
strikers are? They are agents of the Reds, Sullivan! Soviet agents! And
what is it they demand? Why, better wages and work conditions. What is
that but Socialism? Leeches. I had no need of unions! I made my own
way.”
Sullivan knew that the Great Man had the benefit of luck—he’d struck
oil, as a young man—but it was true he’d invested brilliantly.
“I’ll … see to them myself, sir.”
The Great Man reached out and touched the glass wall, remembering.
“I came here from Russia as a boy—the Bolshies had just taken the place
over … We barely got out alive. I won’t see that sickness spread.”
“No sir.”
“And—the other report? It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Both cities are almost entirely destroyed. One bomb apiece.”
The Great Man shook his head in wonder. “Just one bomb—for a whole
city…”
Sullivan stepped closer, opened one of the envelopes, handed over the
photographs. The Great Man held the glossy photographs to the window
so he could make them out in the twinkling light of the skyline. They were
fairly sharp black-and-white snaps of the devastation of Hiroshima,
mostly seen from the air. The city lights were caught on their glossy surface,
as if somehow the thrusting boldness of the New York skyline had itself
destroyed Hiroshima.
“Our man in the State Department smuggled this out for us,” Sullivan
went on. “Some in the target cities were … atomized. Blown to bits.
9/369
Hundreds of thousands dead or dying in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. A
great many more dying from…” He read aloud from one of the reports
he’d brought. “‘Flash burns, radiation burns and trauma … It is expected
that an equal amount will be dead of radiation sickness and possibly cancer
in another twelve months or so.’”
“Cancer? Caused by this weapon?”
“Yes sir. It’s not yet confirmed, but—based on past experiments … they
say it’s likely.”
“I see. Are we indeed certain the Soviets are developing such
weapons?”
“They’re working on it.”
The Great Man snorted ruefully. “Two gigantic empires, two great octopi
struggling with one another—and equipped with monstrous
weapons. Just one bomb to destroy an entire city! These bombs will only
get bigger, and more powerful. What do you suppose will happen, in
time, Sullivan?”
“Atomic war is what some are saying.”
“I feel certain of it! They’ll destroy us all! Still … there is another possibility.
For some of us.”
“Yes sir?”
“I despise what this civilization is becoming, Sullivan. First the
Bolsheviks and then—Roosevelt. Truman, carrying on much of what
Roosevelt began. Little men on the backs of great ones. It will only stop
when real men stand up and say ‘no more’!”
Sullivan nodded, shivering. At times the Great Man could convey the
power of his inner conviction, almost like a lightning rod transmitting a
mighty burst of electricity. There was an undeniable power around him …
After a moment the Great Man looked curiously at Sullivan, as if wondering
how much he could be trusted. At last his employer said, “My
mind is made up, Sullivan. I shall move ahead on a project I was toying
with. It will no longer be a toy—it will be a glorious reality. It entails great
risk—but it must be done. And you may as well know now: it will take,
perhaps, every penny I have to make it happen…”
10/369
Sullivan blinked. Every penny? What extreme was his boss going to
now?
The Great Man chuckled, evidently enjoying Sullivan’s astonishment.
“Oh yes! At first it was an experiment. Little more than a hypothesis—a
game. I already have the drawings for a smaller version—but it could be
bigger. Much bigger! It is the solution to a gigantic problem…”
“The union problem?” Sullivan asked, puzzled.
“No—well, yes, in the long run. Unions too! But I was thinking of a
more pressing problem: the potential destruction of civilization! The
problem, Sullivan, is the inevitability of Atomic war. That inevitability
calls for a gigantic solution. I’ve sent out explorers—and I’ve picked the
spot. But I wasn’t sure I would ever give it the go-ahead. Not until today.”
He peered again at the photos of the devastation, turning them to catch
the light better. “Not until this. We can escape, you and I—and certain
others. We can escape from the mutual destruction of the mad little men
who scuttle about the halls of government power. We are going to build a
new world in the one place these madmen cannot touch…”
“Yes sir.” Sullivan decided not to ask for an explanation. Better to just
hope that whatever overblown scheme the Great Man was caught up in,
he’d drop it, in the end, when he faced the full cost. “Anything more, sir?
I mean—tonight? If I’m going to break up those strikes, I’d better leave
early in the morning…”
“Yes, yes go and get some rest. But there’ll be no rest for me tonight. I
must plan…”
So saying, Andrew Ryan turned away from the window, crossed the
room—and tossed the photos aside. The destruction of Hiroshima and
Nagasaki skidded across the glass-topped desk.

→Fifth Avenue, New York City
1945
Sullivan, chief of security, found the Great Man standing in front of the
enormous window in his corporate office. The boss was silhouetted
against city lights. The only other illumination was from a green-shaded
lamp on the big glass-topped desk across the room, so that the Great Man
was mostly in shadow, hands in the pockets of his crisply tailored suit
jacket as he gazed broodingly out at the skyline.
It was eight o’clock, and Chief Sullivan, a tired middle-aged man in a
rain-dampened suit, badly wanted to go home, kick off his shoes, and
listen to the fight on the radio. But the Great Man often worked late, and
he’d been waiting for these two reports. One report, in particular, Sullivan
wanted to have done with—the one from Japan. It was a report that
made him want a stiff drink, and fast. But he knew the Great Man
wouldn’t offer him one.
“The Great Man” was how Sullivan thought of his boss—one of the
richest, most powerful men in the world. The term was both sarcastic and
serious, and Sullivan kept it to himself—the Great Man was vain and
quick to sense the slightest disrespect. Yet sometimes it seemed the tycoon
was casting about for a friend he could take to heart. Sullivan was
not that man. People rarely liked him much. Something about ex-cops.
“Well, Sullivan?” the Great Man asked, not turning from the window.
“Do you have them?”
“I have them both, sir.”
“Let’s have the report on the strikes first, get it out of the way. The other
one…” He shook his head. “That’ll be like hiding from a hurricane in a
cellar. We’ll have to dig the cellar first, so to speak…”
Sullivan wondered what he meant by that cellar remark, but he let it
go. “The strikes—they’re still going on at the Kentucky mines and the
Mississippi refinery.”
The Great Man grimaced. His shoulders, angularly padded in the current
style, slumped ever so slightly. “We’ve got to be tougher about this,
Sullivan. For the country’s good, as well as our own.”
“Sir—I have sent in strikebreakers. I have sent Pinkerton men to get
names on the strike leaders, see if we can … get something on them.
But—these people are persistent. A hard-nosed bunch.”
“Have you been out there in person? Did you go to Kentucky—or Mississippi,
Chief? Hm? You need not await permission from me to take personal
action—not on this! Unions … they had their own little army in
Russia—they called them Workers Militias. Do you know who these
strikers are? They are agents of the Reds, Sullivan! Soviet agents! And
what is it they demand? Why, better wages and work conditions. What is
that but Socialism? Leeches. I had no need of unions! I made my own
way.”
Sullivan knew that the Great Man had the benefit of luck—he’d struck
oil, as a young man—but it was true he’d invested brilliantly.
“I’ll … see to them myself, sir.”
The Great Man reached out and touched the glass wall, remembering.
“I came here from Russia as a boy—the Bolshies had just taken the place
over … We barely got out alive. I won’t see that sickness spread.”
“No sir.”
“And—the other report? It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Both cities are almost entirely destroyed. One bomb apiece.”
The Great Man shook his head in wonder. “Just one bomb—for a whole
city…”
Sullivan stepped closer, opened one of the envelopes, handed over the
photographs. The Great Man held the glossy photographs to the window
so he could make them out in the twinkling light of the skyline. They were
fairly sharp black-and-white snaps of the devastation of Hiroshima,
mostly seen from the air. The city lights were caught on their glossy surface,
as if somehow the thrusting boldness of the New York skyline had itself
destroyed Hiroshima.
“Our man in the State Department smuggled this out for us,” Sullivan
went on. “Some in the target cities were … atomized. Blown to bits.
9/369
Hundreds of thousands dead or dying in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. A
great many more dying from…” He read aloud from one of the reports
he’d brought. “‘Flash burns, radiation burns and trauma … It is expected
that an equal amount will be dead of radiation sickness and possibly cancer
in another twelve months or so.’”
“Cancer? Caused by this weapon?”
“Yes sir. It’s not yet confirmed, but—based on past experiments … they
say it’s likely.”
“I see. Are we indeed certain the Soviets are developing such
weapons?”
“They’re working on it.”
The Great Man snorted ruefully. “Two gigantic empires, two great octopi
struggling with one another—and equipped with monstrous
weapons. Just one bomb to destroy an entire city! These bombs will only
get bigger, and more powerful. What do you suppose will happen, in
time, Sullivan?”
“Atomic war is what some are saying.”
“I feel certain of it! They’ll destroy us all! Still … there is another possibility.
For some of us.”
“Yes sir?”
“I despise what this civilization is becoming, Sullivan. First the
Bolsheviks and then—Roosevelt. Truman, carrying on much of what
Roosevelt began. Little men on the backs of great ones. It will only stop
when real men stand up and say ‘no more’!”
Sullivan nodded, shivering. At times the Great Man could convey the
power of his inner conviction, almost like a lightning rod transmitting a
mighty burst of electricity. There was an undeniable power around him …
After a moment the Great Man looked curiously at Sullivan, as if wondering
how much he could be trusted. At last his employer said, “My
mind is made up, Sullivan. I shall move ahead on a project I was toying
with. It will no longer be a toy—it will be a glorious reality. It entails great
risk—but it must be done. And you may as well know now: it will take,
perhaps, every penny I have to make it happen…”
10/369
Sullivan blinked. Every penny? What extreme was his boss going to
now?
The Great Man chuckled, evidently enjoying Sullivan’s astonishment.
“Oh yes! At first it was an experiment. Little more than a hypothesis—a
game. I already have the drawings for a smaller version—but it could be
bigger. Much bigger! It is the solution to a gigantic problem…”
“The union problem?” Sullivan asked, puzzled.
“No—well, yes, in the long run. Unions too! But I was thinking of a
more pressing problem: the potential destruction of civilization! The
problem, Sullivan, is the inevitability of Atomic war. That inevitability
calls for a gigantic solution. I’ve sent out explorers—and I’ve picked the
spot. But I wasn’t sure I would ever give it the go-ahead. Not until today.”
He peered again at the photos of the devastation, turning them to catch
the light better. “Not until this. We can escape, you and I—and certain
others. We can escape from the mutual destruction of the mad little men
who scuttle about the halls of government power. We are going to build a
new world in the one place these madmen cannot touch…”
“Yes sir.” Sullivan decided not to ask for an explanation. Better to just
hope that whatever overblown scheme the Great Man was caught up in,
he’d drop it, in the end, when he faced the full cost. “Anything more, sir?
I mean—tonight? If I’m going to break up those strikes, I’d better leave
early in the morning…”
“Yes, yes go and get some rest. But there’ll be no rest for me tonight. I
must plan…”
So saying, Andrew Ryan turned away from the window, crossed the
room—and tossed the photos aside. The destruction of Hiroshima and
Nagasaki skidded across the glass-topped desk.