"Jack Finney - Invasion of the Body Snatchers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Finney Jack)

knows it isn't Ira, that's all. Miles, I'm worried sick!" The tears sprang to her eyes again.
"Work on that drink," I murmured, nodding at her glass, and I took a big swallow of mine, and sat
back in my chair, staring at the ceiling, thinking about this. Wilma had her problems, but she was
toughminded and bright; about thirtyfive years old. She was redcheeked, short, and plump, with no looks
at all; she never married, which is too bad. I'm certain she'd have liked to, and I think she'd have made a
fine wife and mother, but that's how it goes. She ran the local rental library and greeting-card shop, and
did a good job of it. She made a living out of it, anyway, which isn't so easy in a small town. Wilma
hadn't turned sour or bitter; she had a shrewd, humorously cynical turn of mind; she knew what was
what, and didn't fool herself. I couldn't see Wilma letting mental troubles get to her, but still, you never
know. I looked back at Becky. "What do you want me to do?"
"Come out there tonight, Miles." She leaned forward across the desk, pleading. "Right now, if you
possibly can, before it gets dark. I want you to look at Uncle Ira, talk to him; you've known him for
years."
I had my glass raised halfway to my mouth, but I set it back down on the desk, staring at Becky.
"What do you mean? What're you talking about, Becky? Don't you think he's Ira?"
She flushed. "Of course; of course I do!" Suddenly she was biting her lips, shaking her head helplessly
from side to side. "Oh, I don't know, Miles, I don't know. Certainly he's Uncle Ira! Of course he is,
butтАж it's just that Wilma's so positive!" She actually wrung her hands, a thing you read about but rarely
see. "Miles, I don't know what's going on out there!"
I stood up and came around the desk to stand beside her chair. "Well, let's go see," I said gently.
"Take it easy, Becky," and I put a hand on her shoulder comfortingly. Her shoulder, under the summer
dress, felt firm and round and warm, and I took my hand off. "Whatever's happening, there's a cause,
and we'll find it and fix it. Come on."
I turned, opened the wall closet beside my desk to get my hat, and felt like a fool. Because my hat was
sitting where I always keep it, on Fred's head. Fred is a nicely polished, completely articulated skeleton,
and I keep it in my closet, together with a smaller, female skeleton; can't have them standing around the
office frightening the customers. My father gave them to me one Christmas, my first semester in medical
school. They're a fine useful thing for a medical student to have, of course, but I think my father's real
reason for giving them to me was because he could тАУ and did тАУ present them in a huge, sixfootlong,
tissuewrapped box, tied with red and green ribbon. Where he got a box that big, I don't know. Now,
Fred and his companion are in my office closet, and of course I always hang my hat on his polished,
brachycephalic head. My nurse thinks it's a riot, and it got a little smile now from Becky.
I shrugged, picked up my hat, and closed the door. "Sometimes I think I clown around too much;
pretty soon people won't trust me to prescribe aspirin for a head cold." I dialled telephoneanswering, told
them where I was going, and we left the office to go take a look at Uncle Ira.
Just to get the record straight: my full name is Miles Boise Bennell, I'm twentyeight years old, and I've
been practising medicine in Santa Mira, California, for just over a year. Before that I interned, and before
that, Stanford Medical College. I was born and raised in Santa Mira, and my father was a doctor here
before me, and a good one, so I haven't had too much trouble snaring customers.
I'm five feet eleven inches tall, weigh onesixtyfive, have blue eyes, and black, kind of wavy hair, pretty
thick, though already there's the faintest beginning of a bald spot on the crown; it runs in the family. I
don't worry about it; nothing you can do about it, anyway, though you'd think the doctors would find
something. I play golf and swim whenever I can, so I'm always pretty tanned. Five months earlier I'd
been divorced, and now I lived alone in a big oldfashioned frame house, with plenty of big trees and lots
of lawn space around it. It was my parents' house before they died, and now it's mine. That's about all. I
drive a '52 Ford convertible, one of those fancy green ones, because I don't know of any law absolutely
requiring a doctor to drive a small black coup├й.
 We turned into Dewey Avenue and Uncle Ira was out on the lawn before his home. It's a big, wide,
quiet street, all the houses set well apart, and way back from the sidewalk. I had the top down, and when
we drew in to the curb, Uncle Ira looked up, saw us, and waved. "Evening, Becky. Hi, Miles," he called,