"Charles L. Grant - In a Dark Dream" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Charles L)

others were blobs and circles and ovals and blots, half of them manmade.
This one resembled nothing more than a bloated horseshore, the black
rock dead center on its upper rim and visible all year round. From where
he stood it was almost exactly two miles down to West Point on his
right, and another two miles to East Point by the twisting road. The
land that split the water into its uneven arms came to a virtual point
and rose two dozen feet above the surface, poor land for a lawn unless
you wanted to mow straight down.

Despite its length, Point to Point, the lake was only a few hundred
yards across at its widest-from the shore below the rock to the land
that he faced.

And beyond, due south, was the village.

Once, it had been only a few houses, a general store for the local
farmers, and an inn that had provided rooms for travelers who'd gotten
lost and were too weary to complain and move on; the houses along the
shoreline had been merely cabins and cottages for fishermen and

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hunters and a handful of the wealthy who didn't want company.

But that, he thought sourly, was then; unfortunately this was now, and
the village of his childhood was a village no longer. There were streets
and sewers and reservoir water, a high school, a junior high, and a
grade school that was demanding either a twin or a huge addition.

And on the lake ...

He couldn't help grinning again-too damn many people and too damn little
land and too damn little time left to stop the place from exploding.

You, he told himself, are getting too damn cranky for this job.

A shrug. It was a fact, unfortunately, that some of those people living
down there, hidden under the trees and hiding in town, would just as
soon see him vanish into the woods, or wander into a desert, if such a
thing could be found in this part of New Jersey. They didn't care about
the way he dressed; they just wanted to replace him with someone who
liked the way the community was growing.

Glenn Erskine, he was positive they said in quiet corners and whispers,
was a reactionary, not a progressive; he couldn't handle the job anymore.
And there on the rock, mist sculling over the lake and the morning sun
promising July heat as June set to pass, he almost wondered if they were
right.

"Sure," he said to his shadow as he moved. "Sure."