Читать книгу Maxwell's Demon онлайн

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I shoved the spare bedroom door open and shuffled quickly across the room. I grabbed my big, battered copy of Cupid’s Engine from the middle of the shelf and headed towards the door.

Two minutes later, and I was sitting in our tiny little bathroom, pants down, flicking my way past the book’s publisher notes and the yellowing title page for the first time in years.

That was when the landline started to ring.

I glanced helplessly across the hallway to the living-room door. I was still very much occupied on the toilet and in no position to answer it.

What if it’s Imogen? I thought. Well, if it is, the answerphone will pick it up. You can call her back in a few minutes. It’s not the end of the world.

Turning back to my book, I barely noticed when the ringing stopped and the answerphone gave out its loud beep.

Then, gradually, I became aware of the voice coming from the speaker.

I recognised it subconsciously at first, I think, the familiarity of it, and it drew me partway out of my thoughts. The words were muffled, however, and a low-priority message filtered through to the edge of my consciousness – they were playing one of his old recordings on the radio again: an interview, or an old battlefield report. I didn’t exactly try to hear what was being said, and as a result, barely caught anything but the last few words.