"R. A. Lafferty - Stories 1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lafferty R A)

or an unfolding flower. Then it burned far too steadily. The skillet
remained cold when placed over it; nor would water even heat. It had taken
at least five minutes to get the water out of the faucet in the first place.
He ate a few pieces of leftover bread and some scraps of meat.
In the street there was no motion, no real motion. A truck, first
seeming at rest, moved very slowly. There was no gear in which it could move
so slowly. And there was a taxi which crept along, but Charles Vincent had
to look at it carefully for some time to be sure that it was in motion. Then
he received a shock. He realized by the early morning light that the driver
of it was dead. Dead with his eyes wide open!
Slow as it was going, and by whatever means it was moving, it should
really be stopped. Vincent walked over to it, opened the door, and pulled on
the brake, Then he looked into the eyes of that dead man. Was he really
dead? It was hard to be sure. He felt warm. But, even as Vincent looked, the
eyes of the dead man had begun to close. And close they did and open again
in a matter of about twenty seconds.
This was weird. The slowly closing and opening eyes sent a chill
through Vincent. And the dead man had begun to lean forward in his seat.
Vincent put a hand in the middle of the man's chest to hold him upright, but
he found the forward pressure to be as relentless as it was slow. He was
unable to keep the dead man up.
So he let him go, watching curiously; and in a few seconds the
driver's face was against the wheel. But it was almost as if it had no
intention of stopping there. It pressed into the wheel with dogged force.
The man would surely break his face. Vincent took several holds on the dead
man and counteracted the pressure somewhat. Yet the face was being damaged,
and if things were normal blood would have flowed.
The man had been dead so long however, that though he was still warm
his blood must have congealed, for it was fully two minutes before it began
to ooze.
"Whatever I have done, I have done enough damage," said Vincent.
"And, in whatever nightmare I am in, I am likely to do further harm if I
meddle more. I had better leave it alone."
He walked on down the street. Yet whatever vehicles he saw now were
moving with an incredible slowness as though driven by some fantastic gear
reduction. And there were people here and there frozen solid. It was a
chilly morning, but it was not that cold. They were immobile in positions of
motion, as though they were playing the children's game of Statues.
"How is it," said Charles Vincent, "that this young girl, who I
believe works across the street from us, should have died standing up and in
full stride? But, no. She is not dead. Or if so she died with a very alert
expression. And, oh my God, she's doing it too!"
For he realized that the eyes of the girl were closing, and in a
space of a few seconds they had completed their cycle and were open again.
Also, and this was even stranger, she had moved, moved forward in full
stride. He would have timed her if he could. How could he time her when all
the clocks in the world were crazy? Yet she must have been taking about two
steps a minute.
Vincent went into the cafeteria. The early morning crowd that he had
often watched through the window was there. The girl who made flapjacks in