"Thomas A. Easton - Alien Resonance" - читать интересную книгу автора (Easton Thomas A)

leave them alone and go away for awhile--a coffee break, you know?--they fall to
pieces." He gestured toward a pile of shards on the table beside him and added,
"Not all of them, and not all at once, but..."
The announcer leaned toward the camera, grinning. "They won't break unless no
one's looking. And when they do--this is what's inside them. She held up a
nugget that might have been a twin to Alec's own. Alec imitated her motion as
she stroked it with her thumb. "I don't know what this is, but it's the best
worrystone I've ever seen."
Another clip showed a white-haired scientist in a laboratory full of glassware
and computer consoles. "They must be from space. There's nothing remotely like
them on Earth, although these nuggets"--he too had one in his hand--"do make me
think of a petrified egg yolk."
The announcer looked more serious. "Did some interstellar spaceship dump them
when they spoiled in transit? Who knows? But government scientists are concerned
that the eggs may carry totally unknown bacteria or viruses. Arrangements are
already being made to collect them and store them safely. If you have one,
please turn it in to your local police station. Do not keep any worrystones or
bits of egg shell. Turn them all in. We don't know they are dangerous, but just
in case..."
Now Alec understood the roadblock, though he barely believed the reason for it.
Yes, there were thousands of the things. Maybe millions. But from space? He
almost laughed; he was no believer in ancient astronauts or science fiction. The
eggs couldn't be dangerous. He fondled his nugget, his worrystone, once more,
and again. No. It felt good. It was benign, wherever it came from. He would not
surrender it, and he felt sure that he would not be alone in his possessiveness.




That night, Alec dreamed again. Once more, he woke feeling cheerful and warm,
loving and loved. He stretched in the morning light, grinning, and he remembered
a shred of the dream. There were no details, no shapes or figures or words, but
he knew that he should seek the mate to his worrystone. He thought the dream
might even have called the nugget that.
He laughed at the thought. How could a stone--or a piece of petrified egg
yolk--have a mate? But then he frowned, sitting nude on the edge of his bed. The
dream was oddly compelling. He felt driven to go out and search for other
stones, for one particular other stone. It took effort to stay seated, to do no
more than scratch his ribs and think of what he had to do that day. And where
could the dream have come from? Could his stone influence him? Was it perhaps
dangerous after all?
He fetched the stone from his pants pocket. He stroked it, fondled it, rubbed it
against the side of his nose, and watched the sheen of skin oil disappear as if
soaking into the stone. He thought of leaving it in a drawer, and he surprised
himself when he put it back in his pocket instead.
The Sunday paper was obsessed with the stones. They were the grandest mystery in


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