And Jennings with Peter began working on the speech, sitting in a cozy corner of the small shop, which was very quiet. The discussion of John Lennon's life was in full swing, but the conversation died down a little when Earl Knight suddenly stood up and said:
"Well, I guess I better go," Earl said, looking at his interlocutors with a slight, almost imperceptible regret. "It's late, and the cash register... well, how can I say this, I'm already closed, heh."
Peter looked a little confused.
"Oh, you... want to leave?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. "But we're talking about John Lennon here. Aren't you interested?"
Earl grinned, but his smile was somehow unnatural, almost painful.
"You know, guys," he said, moving toward the door, "I've always been less interested in John Lennon than in those who investigate crimes. You know, detectives, investigations, and, frankly, philosophy are a bit tiring. But the cash register - yes, you can always spend many interesting hours with it. But the empathy I've bestowed upon you, well, it's a bit too strange for all of you, right? And for me too, I suppose.
A tense silence fell over the room after his last words. Delia Asia Vieira, standing nearby, felt a slight uneasiness. She quickly glanced at Peter and Jennings to gauge their reactions.
"What do you mean, Earl?" Jennings asked, finally breaking the silence. "Are you really going to leave without even finishing this conversation?"
Earl shook his head and, stamping his feet slightly, as if nervously snapping his fingers, said:
"Time, my friends, is the most valuable thing we have. And if I lose it, it will be, let's say, extremely unfortunate for all of us. You all talk about philosophy, history and people, but you know what's important? It's how someone comes and goes, leaving a trace that can be measured. And my watch is ticking, and it's time for me to go back to the store."
Jennings looked at him, smiling slightly, and there was a mixture of surprise and even disappointment in his voice:
"Earl, you're a man," he said. "Couldn't you have stayed a little longer, just to finish the conversation? We're not just discussing Lennon."
But Earl just shrugged, smiling reservedly, and hurried toward the door.
"I'll be glad to see you all, but right now I need to go there," he said with a slight, almost playful wink.
When the door closed behind him, the shop was quiet again. No one spoke, and for a moment they just stood there, looking at each other.
Peter, still a little confused, sighed:
"What a guy this Earl is. Why is he always so weird?"
Jennings shrugged and smiled:
"I think he thinks too much about things that are not always understandable. He is like an old fox who knows all the secrets but prefers to remain silent."
Delia shook her head, smiling slightly:
"He seemed to be polite, but... his behavior definitely makes us feel uncomfortable."
"That's true," Jennings replied. "But he seems to prefer to keep his distance. Sometimes it's probably better to be a little distant than too involved."
Peter glanced at the door, as if expecting Earl to return. But its silence only confirmed that their strange interlocutor had left.
"Well then," he said, "let's continue. Lennon and his philosophy... In the end, that's all we need."
But then suddenly in the cozy little shop where our heroes continued to talk, a sound was heard, and Delia Asia Vieira, seemingly calmly looking at her interlocutors, suddenly looked slightly warily at the screen built into her hand. After a couple of seconds, a slight wrinkle appeared on it, as if she was thinking.
"Oh," she said in a tone that could even be called apologetic, "I think it's time for you to go to bed, Peter."
All three froze, and Peter, who was just about to interject his remark about Lennon's musical career, looked up at robotess in shock.
"What?" he asked, not quite understanding what had happened. "But I don't... I don't want to sleep. I can still..."
"I understand," Delia Asia Vieira replied. "But according to the program, you already need to rest. It's time for sleep."
Jennings, who was used to strange and sometimes not very logical moments in life, just sighed and looked at Peter.
"Well, you don't want robotess to mess up her programming, do you?" he said with a slight grin. "So come on, Peter, let's go find a motel for three."
Peter, still with a displeased expression on his face, stood up from his seat and ran his hand through his hair.
"But I don't want to sleep, my friend. This is New York! How can you just lie down and forget about everything?"
"You'll have everything," Delia Asia Vieira answered calmly, heading for the door. "But if you don't rest, you'll be like a zombie the next day. And we don't want that, do we?"
Peter might have protested a little longer, but he realized that it was no use arguing with a program that was unlikely to ever make a mistake. Jennings, noticing his silence, nodded to him and followed him out.
Night New York greeted them with the sounds of distant horns of cars, occasional headlights passing by, and the general cozy noise of a city that never slept. As they walked, Peter tried to think about what to do next. He realized that the sooner they found a place to spend the night, the sooner he could join in the conversations and follow the adventures again.
"I see a motel up ahead," Jennings said, noticing bright lights in the distance. "We'll probably have something there that'll sleep the three of us. Don't worry."
"Okay," Peter muttered, "but I still don't like this idea."
Delia Asia Vieira walked ahead, unhurried and focused as always. She knew she could be much faster, but this time she decided to wait for the others. Peter, clenching his hands into fists, tried to cope with his irritation.
"How far do we have to go?" he finally asked, continuing to follow them.
"Don't worry," Jennings replied again. "We're almost there."
When they got to the motel, Jennings was the first to step inside and they were greeted at the reception by a rather sleepy but friendly night manager.
"Good evening," he said with a smile as the three of them entered the spacious but slightly dimly lit room. "Can I help you with something?"
Jennings walked up to the counter.
"We need three places for the night," he said.
"Three?" the administrator checked again, but without waiting for an answer, he handed over the key. "Okay, number 15 will suit you."
As soon as they reached the second floor, Peter, who was apparently not at all happy with the situation, began to express his dissatisfaction again.
"I can't believe we have to sleep in a motel," he said grimly, taking off his shoes and stretching out on one of the beds. "I didn't think New York was the place for me to get my sleep."
"It's just a temporary measure," Jennings said, nodding toward the bed. "Rest and then back to battle. As for New York, it's always full of surprises."
Delia Asia Vieira, standing by the window and watching the lights of the night city, calmly added:
"And that's exactly what I appreciate about traveling. New cities, new challenges. Every moment counts, Peter."
Peter sighed, but finally gave in.
"Okay, okay," he said. "Good night."
"Good night," Jennings and Delia Asia Vieira replied.
No matter how much Peter resisted the adults' admonitions, he still felt his eyes begin to close, and soon sleep washed over him like a wave. In the dream, he found himself in a large, brightly lit kindergarten cafeteria. There were many children around, all in identical bright suits. They were drinking juice and eating sandwiches. Peter felt a strange sense of lightness, as if he had returned to childhood, to a time when life was not so difficult.
But the strangest thing was that in the corner of the room, at a large table, sat Delia York. A girl who was not yet ten, there was none of the heaviness in her eyes that Peter had seen in her recently, when she became the first underage president of the United States. In this dream, she was just a child - with unruly hair and a shining smile on her face. But what surprised Peter most of all was that Delia was not the one who sat at the table in kindergarten. Peter felt that this was a strange dream in which something was wrong.
The boy walked up to the table and sat down carefully next to her. He didn't know why he did it, but the thought flashed through his mind that this wasn't just an accident. This was something important.
"Hello," he said, trying to contain his excitement. "You're... You're Delia York, right?"
The girl turned her head and looked at him with slight surprise, as if she did not expect to meet someone in this dream.
"Yes, and who are you?" she asked, frowning slightly.
Peter looked at her confusedly, but then he smiled. This dream was strange, but it also seemed right.
"I... My name is Peter. I just... I thought you were supposed to be older."
Delia laughed.
"That would be awkward. Do you want me to be like those adults?" She nodded toward the table where several children were sitting, really mature for their age, tired and overwhelmed with problems.
Peter felt something change in his head again. There was an unfamiliar atmosphere around him, somehow shaky, in which the concept of time was stretched out.
"You... you know that you're going to be president one day?" Peter asked awkwardly. "In the future, I mean."
Delia thought about it, looking at him with interest. Something unfamiliar flashed in her eyes.
"President?" she repeated, as if trying to understand the very meaning of the word. "No, I'm just a little girl. And I don't want to be president. Why can't I just be a happy little princess?"
Peter froze, watching her innocent smile. There was more to her answer than just words. It was like a prediction, like an understanding that perhaps her future was already written, despite the seeming innocence of her face.
At that moment, Gene York, Delia's stepfather, appeared behind Peter. He walked up to the table and put his hand on his stepdaughter's shoulder.
"Delia, you still have to eat lunch," he said softly, looking at the children at the table.
His voice was quiet, but there was a sense of power in it, as if he was the kind of person who was always in control.
"Yes, Dad, I'm almost done," Delia replied, her sharp black eyes never leaving Peter Reynolds' face.
Gene York nodded and removed his hand from the girl's shoulder, but the boy managed to notice a mixture of concern and cold determination in his eyes, as if the stepfather of Damien Thorn's daughter knew that all this was just a stage on the way to the Antichrist's coming to power over the world.
"You're not a child anymore, Peter," Delia York said, as if she understood what was going on in the boy's head. "Don't you understand?"
And he understood.
But that's a completely different story.