"Herbert, Frank - The Santaroga Barrier" - читать интересную книгу автора (Herbert Brian & Frank)

"Gilbert, old fellow, you made it all right, I see." Selador's voice was full of cheer.

"I'm at the Santaroga House, Doctor."

"I hear it's quite comfortable."

"Looks that way." Through his buzzing tiredness, Dasein felt a sense of foolishness. Why had he made this call? Selador's sharp mind would probe for underlying meanings, motives.

"I presume you didn't call just to tell me you've arrived," Selador said.

"No . . . I . . ." Dasein realized he couldn't express his own vague uneasiness, that it wouldn't make sense, this feeling of estrangement, the separation of Santarogans and Outsiders, the pricklings of warning fear. "I'd like you to look into the oil company dealings with this area," Dasein said. "See if you can find out how they do business in the valley. There's apparently an independent service station here. I want to know who supplies the gas, oil, parts -- that sort of thing."

"Good point, Gilbert. I'll put one of our . . ." There was a sudden crackling, bapping sound on the line. It stopped and there was dead silence.

"Dr. Selador?"

Silence.

Damn! Dasein thought. He jiggled the hook. "Operator. Operator!"

A masculine voice came on the line. Dasein recognized the desk clerk's twang. "Who's that creating all that commotion?" the clerk demanded.

"I was cut off on my call to Berkeley," Dasein said. "Could you . . . "

"Line's out," the clerk snapped.

"Could I come down to the lobby and place the call from a pay phone?" Dasein asked. As he asked it, the thought of walking that long distance down to the lobby repelled Dasein. The feeling of tiredness was a weight on his chest.

"There's no line out of the valley right now," the clerk said. "Call can't be placed."

Dasein passed a hand across his forehead. His skin felt clammy and he wondered if he'd picked up a germ. The room around him seemed to expand and contract. His mouth was dry and he had to swallow twice before asking: "When do they expect to have the line restored?"

"How the hell do I know?" the clerk demanded.

Dasein took the receiver away from his ear, stared at it. This was a very peculiar desk clerk . . . and a very peculiar room the way it wavered and slithered with its stench of garlic and its . . .

He grew aware of a faint hissing.

Dasein's gaze was drawn on a string of growing astonishment to an old-fashioned gaslight jet that jutted from the wall beside the hall door.

Stink of garlic? Gas!

A yapping, barking voice yammered on the telephone.

Dasein looked down at the instrument in his hand. How far away it seemed. Through the window beyond the phone he could see the Inn sign: Gold Rush Museum. Window equaled air. Dasein found muscles that obeyed, lurched across the desk, fell, smashing the telephone through the window.

The yapping voice grew fainter.

Dasein felt his body stretched across the desk. His head lay near the shattered window. He could see the telephone cord stretching out the window. There was cool air blowing on a distant forehead, a painful chill in his lungs.