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

They tried to kill me, he thought. It was a wondering thought, full of amazement. His mind focused on the two investigators who'd already died on this project -- accidents. Simple, easily explained accidents . . . just like this one!

The air -- how cold it felt on his exposed skin. His lungs burned with it. There was a hammering pulse at his temple where it pressed against the desk surface. The pulse went on and on and on . . .

A pounding on wood joined the pulse. For a space, they beat in an insane syncopation.

"You in there! Open up!" How commanding, that voice. Open up, Dasein thought. That meant getting to one's feet, crossing the room, turning a door handle . . .

I'm helpless, he thought. They could still kill me.

He heard metal rasp against metal. The air blew stronger across his face. Someone said: "Gas!"

Hands grabbed Dasein's shoulders. He was hauled back, half carried, half dragged out of the room. The face of Marden, the red-haired patrol captain, swung across his vision. He saw the clerk: pale, staring face, bald forehead glistening under yellow light. There was a brown ceiling directly in front of Dasein. He felt a rug, hard and rasping, beneath his back.

A twanging voice said: "Who's going to pay for that window?" Someone else said: "I'll get Dr. Piaget."

Dasein's attention centered on Marden's mouth, a blurred object seen through layers of distortion. There appeared to be anger lines at the corners of the mouth. It turned toward the hovering pale face of the desk clerk, said: "To hell with your window, Johnson! I've told you enough times to get those gas jets out of this place. How many rooms still have them?"

"Don't you take that tone with me, Al Marden. I've known you since . . ."

"I'm not interested in how long you've known me, Johnson. How many rooms still have those gas jets?"

The clerk's voice came with an angry tone of hurt: "Only this'n an' four upstairs. Nobody in the other rooms."

"Get 'em out by tomorrow night," Marden said.

Hurrying footsteps interrupted the argument. Dr. Piaget's round face blotted out Dasein's view of the ceiling. The face wore a look of concern. Fingers reached down, spread Dasein's eyelids. Piaget said: "Let's get him on a bed."

"Is he going to be all right?" the clerk asked.

"It's about time you asked," Marden said.

"We got him in time," Piaget said. "Is that room across the hall empty?"

"He can have 260," the clerk said. "Ill open it."

"You realize this is Jenny's fellow from the school you almost killed?" Marden asked, his voice receding as he moved away beside the clerk.

"Jenny's fellow?" There was the sound of a key in a lock. "But I thought . . ."

"Never mind what you thought!"

Piaget's face moved close to Dasein. "Can you hear me, young fellow?" he asked.

Dasein drew in a painful breath, croaked, "Yes."

"You'll have quite a head, but you'll recover."

Piaget's face went away. Hands picked Dasein up. The ceiling moved. There was another room around him: like the first one -- tall ceiling, even the sound of dripping water. He felt a bed beneath his back, hands beginning to undress him. Sudden nausea gripped him. Dasein pushed the hands away.