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

sight I suppress a sigh and feel lonely. The meeting continues,
and one by one people stand up and nervously tell their stories.
Every one is much the same: He woke up and saw this red light
on the wall; she looked up from the television and saw a red light
on the wall; he and she and another were studying and they heard
voices and looked up to see a red light on the wall . . . it was
hardly a spectacular experience by the way they told it.
Nevertheless they all seem haunted by it, and many of the people
around me, young and old, glance around with wide eyes as if they
expect the little red light to appear at any moment.
When it comes to the bum's turn, he quietly clears his throat
and in a husky voice says, "Yeah, I saw it . . . I saw it on the
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



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