"Peter David - PSI-man 01 - Mind-Force Warrior" - читать интересную книгу автора (David Peter)

was old hat. For the inhabitants of Taylor's Point, it was nothing short of miraculous.
Four Star's series of trucks, trailers, and transports had wended its way down the interstate
from its previous gig in LaPoint. It was a dazzling assortment of vehicles in various states of
disrepair. The best-working truck had a muffler with a hole the size of Sacramento. There
weren't all that many animals: a couple of lions past their prime, a fairly small elephant, a
couple of horses.
It was as if the circus itself was almost an afterthought, which it was. The main source of
revenue was the countless skill booths and the handful of rides, all neatly collapsible and
transportable. Four Star was a rolling testament to the American dream of cheesy family
entertainment.
All of the support personnel rode in a handful of Winnebagos. The hours of their transport
were long and gray, staring out at endless stretches of wheat fields and the like that suggested
an innocuous, innocent American spirit that had long since been ruthlessly stomped away.
Chuck stared out the window, his eyes locked on the skies. He rolled slightly back and
forth, swaying to the gentle motion of the van, staring upward. From behind him, further
back in the van, there was the familiar smacking sound of pasteboard on pasteboard, plastic
chips being tossed, and potato chips being crunched. The ongoing, ever-continuous card
game was in progress.
Chuck's square jaw rested on his hands as he stared toward the horizon. Apparently in his
late twenties, he was a disarmingly handsome man. His hair was jet black, as was the thick
beard he had grown in recent months. Originally his hair had been blonde, but his beard
always grew in very dark and he had taken advantage of that by dyeing his hair to match.
Anything to disguise his appearance.
He had snapping blue eyes that women found endlessly fascinating. His nose was slightly
irregular, the gift of a profound breaking while playing college football. He had high
cheekbones and neatly placed dimples when he smiled.
His forehead was fairly high, but it wasn't as if his hair were receding. He'd always had
that vast expanse of forehead. When he was a kid, the other kids said he looked dorky. His
mother said he looked scholarly. When he'd grown up his mother's opinion had seemed to be
the right one, although the occasional smart ass still looked into Chuck's shiny forehead and
smoothed their own hair as if consulting a mirror. Chuck would grin lopsidedly and bear
such foolishness. It did him no harm. "Kept him honest," as his father always said.
From behind him a voice called, "Jesus God, Chuck, what's the big fascination?"
He knew the voice as Paul's without turning around. "With what?" he asked.
"Outside. You always stare outside for hours when we travel, like you're waiting for a sign
or something."
The pasteboard slapping had sped up a little. That meant Dakota was dealing.
"No sign," said Chuck evenly. "Maybe just a break in the sky."
"Forget it," Dakota's lilting voice now came as the dealing ceased. "Forecast for today is
gray, followed by rain. Like yesterday. Like the day before. Like always."
Chuck turned away and walked slowly over toward the card players. He settled next to
Dakota. Chuck got along with everyone. It was his specialty. But Dakota he had a special
fondness for.
She studied her cards but shot a quick, friendly glance in his direction. "So the great
outcast finally deigns to sit with us lowly card players," she said.
He grinned. "Is that what I am?"
Dexter, bespectacled and lean, cautious to the point of distraction, methodically
rearranged his hand as was his ritual. "You never play cards with us," he said through his
nose.
"Man's right," said Harry, who rounded out the foursome. In contrast to the slim Paul