"Anderson, Poul - There Will Be Time" - читать интересную книгу автора (Anderson Poul)

"Come on," I said. "Let's go see."
And in the room, immensely relieved, I crowed: "Why, nobody here but good ol' John."
She clutched my arm. "He looks the same." The infant had calmed and was gurgling. "He sounds the same. Except he can't be!"
"The dickens he can't. Ellie, you had a hallucination. No great surprise in this weather, when you're still weak." Actually, I'd never encountered such a case before, certainly not in a woman as levelheaded as she. But my words were not too implausible. Besides, half a GP's medical kit is his confident tone of voice.
She wasn't fully reassured till we got the birth certificate and compared the prints of fingers and feet thereon with the child's. I prescribed a tonic, joffied her over a cup of coffee, and returned to work.
When nothing similar happened for a while, I pretty well forgot the incident. That was the year when the only daughter Kate and I would ever have caught pneumonia and died, soon after her second birthday.
Johnny Havig was bright, imaginative, and a loner. The more he came into command of limbs and language, the less he was inclined to join his peers. He seemed happiest at his miniature desk drawing pictures, or in the yard modeling clay animals, or sailing a toy boat along the riverbank when an adult took him there. Eleanor worried about him. Tom didn't. "I was the same," he would say. "It makes for an odd childhood and a terrible adolescence, but I wonder if it doesn't pay off when you're grown."
"We've got to keep a closer eye on him," she declared. "You don't realize how often he disappears. Oh, sure, a game for him, hide-and-seek in the shrubbery or the basement or wherever. Grand sport, listening to Mommy hunt up the close and down the stair, hollering. Someday, though, he'll find his way past the picket fence and-" Her fingers drew into fists. "He could get run over."
The crisis came when he was four. By then he understood that vanishings meant spankings, and had stopped (as far as his parents knew. They didn't see what went on in his room). But one summer morning he was not in his bed, and he was not to be found, and every policeman and most of the neighborhood were out in search.
At midnight the doorbell rang. Eleanor was asleep, after I had commanded her to take a pill. Tom sat awake, alone. He dropped his cigarette-the scorch mark in the rug would long remind him of his agony-and knocked over a chair on his way to the front entrance.
A man stood on the porch. He wore a topcoat and shadowing hat which turned him featureless. Not that that made any difference. Tom's whole being torrented over the boy who held the man by the hand.
"Good evening, sir," said a pleasant voice. "I believe you're looking for this young gentleman?"
And, when Tom knelt to seize his son, hold him, weep and try to babble thanks, the man departed.
"Funny," Tom said to me afterward. "I couldn't have been focusing entirely on Johnny for more than a minute. You know Elm Street has good lamps and no cover. Even in a sprint, no-
body could get out of sight fast. Besides, running feet would've set a dozen dogs barking. But the pavement was empty."
The child would say nothing except that he had been "around," and was sorry, and wouldn't wander again.

Nor did he. In fact, he emerged from his solitariness to the extent of acquiring one inseparable friend, the Dunbar boy. Pete fairly hulked over his slight, quiet companion. He was no fool; today he manages the local A & P. But John, as he now wanted to be called, altogether dominated the relationship. They played his games, went to his favorite vacant lots and, later, his chosen parts of Morgan Woods, enacted the histories of his visionary worlds.
His mother sighed, in my cluttered carbolic-and-leather-smelling office: "I suppose John's so good at daydreaming that even for Pete, the real world seems pale by contrast. That's the trouble. He's too good at it."
This was in the second year following. I'd seen him through a couple of the usual ailments, but otherwise had no cause to suspect problems and was startled when Eleanor requested an appointment to discuss him. She'd laughed over the phone:
"Well, you know Tom's Yankee conscience. He'd never let me ask you professional questions on a social occasion." The sound had been forlorn.
I settled back in my creaky swivel chair, bridged my fingers, and said, "Do you mean he tells you things that can't be true, but which he seems to believe are? Quite common. Always outgrown."
"I wonder, Bob." She frowned at her lap. "Isn't he kind of old for that?"
"Perhaps. Especially in view of his remarkably fast physical and mental development, these past months. However, practicing medicine has driven into my bones the fact that 'average' and 'normal' do not mean the same. . . . Okay. John has imaginary playmates?"
She tried to smile. "Well, an imaginary uncle."
I lifted my brows. "Indeed? Just what has he said to you?"
"Hardly anything. What do children ever tell their parents?
But I've overheard him talking to Pete, often, about his Uncle Jack who comes and takes him on all sorts of marvelous trips."
"Uncle Jack, eh? What kind of trips? To this kingdom you once mentioned he's invented, which Leo the Lion rules over?"
"N-no. That's another weird part. He'll describe Animal Land to Tom and me; he knows perfectly well it's pure fantasy. But these journeys with his 'uncle' . . . they're different. What snatches I've caught are, well, realistic. A visit to an Indian camp, for instance. They weren't storybook or movie Indians. He described work they had to do, and the smell of drying hides and dung fires. Or, another time, he claimed he'd been taken on an airplane ride. I can see how he might dream up an airplane bigger than a house. But why did he dwell on its having no propellers? I thought boys loved to go eee-yowww like a diving plane. No, his flew smooth and nearly noiseless. A movie was shown aboard. In Technicolor. He actually had a name for the machine. Jet? Yes, I think he said 'jet.'"
"You're afraid his imagination may overcome him?" I asked needlessly. When she nodded, swallowing, I leaned forward, patted her hand, and told her:
"Ellie, imagination is the most precious thing childhood has got. The ability to imagine in detail, like those Indians, is beyond valuation. Your boy is more than sane; he may be a genius. Whatever you do, never try to kill that in him."
I stifi believe I was right-totally mistaken, but right.
On this warm day, I chuckled and finished, "As for his, uh, jet airplane, I'll bet you a dozen doughnut holes Pete Dunbar has a few Buck Rogers Big Little Books."

All small boys were required to loathe school, and John went through the motions. No doubt much of it did bore him, as must be true of any kid who can think and is forced into lockstep. However, his grades were excellent, and he was genuinely gripped by what science and history were offered. ("A star passed near our sun and pulled out a ribbon of flaming gas that became the planets. . . . The periods of world civilization are Egypt, Greece, Rome, the Middle Ages, and modern time, which began in 1492.")
His circle of friends, if not intimates, widened. Both sets of parents regretted that my Billy was four years older, Jimmy two and Stuart three years younger, than Johnny. At their stage of life, those gaps dwarfed the Grand Canyon. John shunned organized games, and by and large existed on the fringes of the tribe. For instance, Eleanor had to do the entire organizing of his birthday parties. Nevertheless, between his gentle manner and his remarkable fund of conversation-when someone else took the initiative and stimulated him-he was fairly well liked.
In his eighth year he caused a new sensation. A couple of older boys from the tough side of the tracks decided it would be fun to lie in wait for individuals on their way back from school and pummel them. Buses only carried farm children, and Senlac wasn't yet built solid; most walking routes had lonely spots. Naturally, the victims could never bring themselves to complain.
The sportsmen did, after they jumped John Havig. They blubbered that he'd called an army to his aid. And beyond doubt, they had taken a systematic drubbing.
The tale earned them an extra punishment. "Bullies are always cowards," said fathers to their sons. "Look what happened when that nice Havig boy stood up and fought." For a while he was regarded with awe, though he blushed and stammered and refused to give details; and thereafter we called him Jack.
Otherwise the incident soon dropped into obscurity. That was the year when France fell.

"Any news of the phantom uncle?" I asked Eleanor. Some families had gotten together for a party, but I wanted a respite from political talk.
"What?" She blinked, there where we stood on the Stock-tons' screened porch. Lighted windows and buzzing conversation at our backs didn't blot out a full moon above the chapel of Holberg College, or the sound of crickets through a warm and green-odorous dark. "Oh." She dimpled. "You mean my son's. No, not for quite a while. You were right, that was only a phase."
"Or else he's learned discretion." I wouldn't have uttered my thought aloud if I'd been thinking.
Stricken, she said, "You mean he may have clammed up completely? He is reserved, he does tell us nothing important, or anybody else as far as I can learn-"
"I.e.," I said in haste, "he takes after his dad. Well, Ellie, you got yourself a good man, and your daughter-in-law will too. Come on, let's go in and refresh our drinks."

My records tell me the exact day when, for a while, Jack Havig's control broke apart.
Tuesday, April 14, 1942. The day before, Tom had made the proud announcement to his son. He had not mentioned his hope earlier, save to his wife, because he wasn't sure what would happen. But now he had the notice. The school had accepted his resignation, and the Army his enlistment, as of term's end.