"Davis, Jerry - Moon At Noon, The" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davis Jerry)

held it out. Mike would tumble to his death, and only prove to the
world that hang gliding --- with or without a safety suit --- was
too dangerous to be legal.
Mike managed to cancel the turn, even to coax the glider a
little to the right. This was still no good, as he was now heading
right for the side of the hill. He had hardly any control now at
all, though if he could just get it a little more to the right, he
could land safely on the fairway to the 7th hole. But a sudden
updraft caught him and sent him up another thirty meters, getting
him right up to the crest of the shoulder. And there, sitting on
the ridge, was the Country Club clubhouse. Mike aimed for the
white rock of the long, flat roof, and touched down to find it
very hot on the bottom of his bare feet.
"Yow!" he said. "Ow! Oooh! Ouch!" He hopped around, getting
out of the harness, then dropped the glider and danced around to
the wing tip. He snapped the buttons shut, rushed back to the
middle, harnessed himself, and ran off toward the North-East.
There was a terrible dip off the edge of the roof, and for a
moment it didn't look like he was going to clear the line of trees
separating one side of the ridge from the other. He turned on one
wing and sailed in between, right through the trees and only
several feet over the grassy ground, then the hill dropped away
and the city once again spread below his bare toes. "Jesus!" he
exclaimed to himself. "This is it. This is enough." He pulled on
the bar and went into a dive. The glider swooped down toward the
tops of the buildings, the air rushing past him and roaring in his
ears, then he pulled up and crossed over to the park, a streak of
color slicing through the air. He circled around once, looking for
a secluded spot, and shedding some of the speed from the dive.
There was a whole meadow adjacent to his car that looked totally
deserted, so he took it down and hit the ground running. He
reached the edge of the bushes and struggled out of his harness,
then quickly began undoing the wing nuts so that he could fold the
wings and get out of sight. From somewhere to his right he heard
shouting, and he gritted his teeth, trying to hurry. "Over there!"
he heard a woman's voice. "I think he landed!"
"Where?!"
"Over there!"
Mike folded the wings and rushed into the bushes, pulling the
glider after him. He pulled his pack out and fumbled with his
clothes, putting his underwear on backwards and buttoning his
shirt crooked. By the time he had his safety suit on he could hear
people in the meadow where he'd landed, calling out to each other,
saying they could swear this is where he had dropped from sight.
Trying to be as silent as possible, he disassembled the glider ---
though no matter what he tried, he couldn't silence the unsnapping
of the buttons. Someone was poking around in the bushes to the
right of him, about ten meters away, when Mike finished stowing
the glider in the pack. He took a breath, turned toward the street
and pushed his way through the bushes to the sidewalk.