"Davis, Jerry - Random Acts" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davis Jerry)

surface of a building, and it said, 'Look, there he is,' and I
ran. I saw it again on the same night in a different place, but
didn't hear it speak." I'm impressed. I've never heard him speak
so clearly. I'm sitting there pondering this when Virginia Beach
clears her throat and says, "Excuse me." I turn to look at her and
she nods. I stare blankly, wondering why she nodded at me, then
suddenly realize it's my turn to tell everyone how and where I saw
the Little Red Light. Jesus Christ! I think to myself. What do I
say? Everyone is looking at me expectantly, and Virginia's eyes
are narrowing, suspicious . . . she's probably figured out I'm
with Tom Harrison and that I've stayed behind to spy on the
meeting.
"I was in my bathtub," I tell them. "The light appeared on
the ceiling and stayed there for three minutes. I didn't hear any
voices, thought." I swallow, wondering if they'll buy it. I can't
tell about the rest of them, but Virginia Beach is glaring at me.
She doesn't say anything, but she continues to stare. I smile,
shrugging, but she doesn't react, doesn't shift her gaze. Finally
she turns and points to the next person and I nearly slide out of
my chair in relief.
The rest of the meeting takes form as a discussion as to what
this mysterious light is, what it means, what it wants . . . et
cetera. Most of them think it's Aliens from Planet 14 trying to
contact them, but there's all sorts of suggestions. Someone says
Russian psychics are causing the phenomenon; another forms a
theory attributing it to an electrical condition caused by the
over-abundance of radio and television signals. I myself suggest
ball lightning, but no one goes for it. The discussion winds down,
and when they adjourn the meeting I am the first person out of the
room.
Tom and Pris are across the street, sitting on a public lawn
under a streetlight. Pris sees me and raises both hands, waving,
her face bursting out in a tremendous smile. I feel my heart-rate
increase, and I smile back --- I have no choice, her smile is one
of those that are so warm and natural and happy that you smile
back out of reflex, whether you feel like it or not. "You made it
out alive!" she exclaims in her throaty voice; it cracks a little
at the peak of her emphasized "alive."
She and Tom get to their feet and we head toward the car,
ignoring the stares of the people drifting out of the building ---
people realizing that I was, indeed, a spy for the Barb's most
notorious reporter. I tell them about what went on in the meeting
as we pile into the car and Tom starts the loud, throbbing engine.
Tom listens to me, but I can tell he's lost interest. There's no
story here for him, unless he wants to write for the National
Inquirer. The car jerks forward, leaping down the road, and in two
minutes we make it to Euclid Street. Tom parks in his rented spot
way up the hill from the building where Tom and I share an
apartment. The building, named "The Euclid," is right across the
street from the Berkeley campus, and there's never any parking