"Lester Del Rey - Pursuit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Del Rey Lester)

cold war was still going on, and that would have been pointless when any nation had such power.
And if the secret belonged to the United States, the young man would never have levitated to avoid police
at the greater risk of tipping off anyone who saw that such things could be done.
Nothing made sense - not even the crazy feeling of fear that had warned him on some occasions and
failed him this last time. The only explanation that was credible was the totally incredible idea that some life,
alien to earth and with strange unearthly powers, was after him - or that he was insane.
He fumbled through a pack of cigarettes until he located the last one, streaked with sweat that was still
pouring down from his armpit, and lighted it. It was all answerless - just as his sudden need for smoking
was.
 III



Hawkes crushed out the cigarette and began climbing the wide stairs slowly. It was probably an ambush
into which he was heading - but without this place, he had no chance of resting. He stared at the numbers
painted on the dirty red doors, and went on up a second flight of stairs. The number he wanted was at the end
of the hall, dimly lighted. He dropped to the keyhole, but found it had been filled long ago, probably when
the Yale lock was installed.
He put his ear against the door, and listened. There was no sound from inside except a monotonous noise
that must be water dripping from a leaky faucet. Finally, he climbed to his feet and reached for his keys. The
third one he tried fitted, and the door swung open.
He fumbled about, looking for a light switch, and finally struck a match. The switch was a string hanging
down from a bare bulb. He pulled it, to find he stood inside one of the old monstrosities with which New
York is filled - a combination kitchen and bathroom, with a tiny closet for the toilet in one corner. There was
an ice-box, a dirty stove, a Franklin heater connected to the chimney, a small sink, and a rickety table with
four folding chairs. In a closet, cheap china showed.
He went through that, into the seven-by-twelve living room. There was a cheap radio, a worn sofa, two
more folding chairs and a big typing table. The rug on the floor had been patched together. Then hebreathed
more easily. Over the back of one of the chairs was a sports jacket which he recognized as his own. He
jerked it up suddenly and began going through the pockets, but they had already been emptied.
It didn't matter - he no longer cared why he should be in a place so totally unlike any his usually neat
habits would have led him to. It was his.
Then, as he came into the bedroom, he hesitated. It was smaller than the living room, with a bed that took
up half of one wall, and two dressers jammed into the remaining space. One corner held a cardboard closet -
and hanging on the hook was a man's raincoat and hat, both at least five sizes too big for him. His eyes
darted about, to find a strange mixture of things he remembered as his and possessions which he would
never have owned. On one of the dressers was a small traveling case, filled with the cosmetics and
appliances which only a woman would use.
He jerked open the closet, and his nose told him before his eyes that it held only female clothing! Yet on
the shelf, his old hat rested happily.
He could make no sense of it - the place looked as if several people lived in it, and yet it wasn't really
fitted for anyone to spend his whole time there. There was none of the accumulation of property that would
fit any permanent residence. He went out of the bedroom, passing the typewriter desk. The typewriter was an
old, standard Olympia - a German machine he'd refitted with the Dvorak keyboard which he had learned for
greater efficiency. He was sure nobody else would want it.
The dishes were dusty, and there was no food in the icebox.
 Now, though, it began to fit - a place where it was convenient to stop in, but not a place to live. And
perhaps he had been in the habit of lending it to others. Though why he shouldn't have used his own
apartment was something he still couldn't understand.
But it was possible there was no record of this place.