by Джеффри Лорд
Leighton frowned at the interruption. «Precisely what I was about to say. Even a tape, though, would have been a good starting point toward duplicating the Inward Eye process. Ah, well, there's no helping it now.»
Fortunately, Blade added mentally. He wasn't quite as happy with the mission as Leighton seemed to be. He'd taken gambles that hadn't turned into disasters as much by good luck as by anything he'd done. Not gambles with his own life, but gambles with other people's lives. He'd gambled the lives of everyone in Mak'loh in crippling the city's defenses and starting a civil war. He'd done this on the assumption that the Shoba's army wouldn't strike until the city was ready to defend itself. He'd been right-by the narrowest of margins. But he'd made his assumption on much too little hard evidence. He'd made a mistake.
Was he getting stale or tired? That was a question he'd have to face in the privacy of his own mind, before he even raised it with J. There was no need to breathe a word about it here.
He was certain of one thing though. It wasn't bad luck that he hadn't brought back the secret of the Inward Eye. It was the best sort of luck, for him, for the Project, for Britain, and for the whole world of Home Dimension.
He'd seen too clearly what the Inward Eye could do to people frightened of reality-and there were plenty of people in Home Dimension filled with that same fear. Too many of them had already retreated into drink, drugs, mystical religions-a dozen strange ways of life. None of these cut them off from the world and sucked them in as thoroughly as the Inward Eye. None of these was so dangerous.
To be sure, Home Dimension might in time develop something like the Inward Eye on its own. Blade couldn't do anything about that. But in the meantime, he could be happy that he hadn't brought back from the city of the living dead a secret that could bring his own world down in ruins.
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