"Philip Jose Farmer - Night of Light" - читать интересную книгу автора (Farmer Phillip Jose)

down the street in frantic pursuit of the fluttering transparent skin that turned over and
over as it sailed upon the strong wind, over and over, showing the eye holes, the earholes,
the sagging empty gaping mouthhole, and trailing a few long and blond hairs from the
line of the forehead, the scalp itself being absent.
The wind howled behind him, seeming to add its fury to his. Suddenly the skin, which
had fluttered just within his reach, shot upwards on a strong draft coming around a
building.
Carmody cursed and leaped, and his fingers touched the thing. But it flew up and
landed on a balcony at least ten feet above him, lodged against the feet of the diorite
image of the god Yess.
Panting, holding his aching sides, John Carmody leaned against the base of a buttress.
Though he had once been in superb condition, as befitted the ex-welterweight amateur
boxing champion of the Federation, his belly was swelling to make room for his
increasing appetite, and fat was building up beneath his chin, like a noose.
It made little difference to him or to anybody else. He was not much to look at,
anyway. He had a shock of blue-black hair, stiff and straight, irresistibly reminding one
of a porcupineтАЩs quills. His head was melon-shaped, his forehead too high, his left eyelid
drooped just enough to give his face a lopsided look, his nose was too long and sharp, his
mouth too thin, his teeth too widely spaced.
He looked up at the balcony, cocking his head to one side like a bird, and saw he
couldnтАЩt climb up the rough but slick wall. The windows were closed with heavy iron
shutters, and the massive iron door was locked. A sign hung from its handle. On it was a
single word in the alphabet of the people of the northern continent of Kareen.
SLEEPING.
Carmody shrugged, smiled indifferently, in contrast to his former wildness to get at
the skin, and walked away. Abruptly the wind, which had died down, sprang into life
again and struck him like a blow from a huge fist.
He rolled with it as he would have rolled with a punch in the ring, kept his footing,
and leaned into it, head down but bright blue eyes looking upwards. Nobody ever caught
him with his eyes shut.
There was a phone booth on the corner, a massive marble box that could hold twenty
people easily. Carmody hesitated outside it but, impelled by the screaming fury of the
wind, he entered. He went to one of the six phones and lifted its receiver. But he did not
sit down on the broad stone bench, preferring to dance around, to shift nervously from
side to side and to keep his head cocked as one eye looked for intruders.
He dialed his number, Mrs. KriтАЩs boarding house. When she answered the phone, he
said, тАЬBeautiful, this is John Carmody. I want to speak to Father Skelder or Father
Ralloux.тАЭ
Mrs. Kri giggled, as he knew she would, and said, тАЬFather Skelder is right here. Just a
second.тАЭ
There was a pause, then a manтАЩs deep voice. тАЬCarmody? What is it?тАЭ
тАЬNothing to get alarmed about,тАЭ said Carmody. тАЬI think. . .тАЭ He waited for a comment
from the other end of the line. He smiled, thinking of Skelder standing there, wondering
what was going on, unable to say too much because of Mrs. KriтАЩs presence. He could see
the monkтАЩs long face with its many wrinkles and high cheekbones and hollow cheeks and
shiny bald pate, the lips like a crabтАЩs pincers tightening until they squeezed themselves
out of sight.
тАЬListen, Skelder, IтАЩve something to tell you. It may or may not be important, but it is
rather strange.тАЭ He stopped again and waited, knowing that the monk was foaming
underneath that seemingly impassive exterior, that he would not care to display it at all