"Paul Levinson - Loose Ends (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Levinson Paul)

Jeff fumbled for his faculty ID, crafted to look like a
1985 edition, and hoped it would get by the beefy, florid-faced
policeman. "Sorry, Officer. I teach at the College of Liberal
Arts and Science here."
The cop eyed the ID, Jeff, and softened. "You're a teacher
from another division?"
"Right," Jeff said, not really knowing what that meant.
The cop nodded. "The student lounge was broken into two
hours ago and severely vandalized. These kids got no respect
for property. Hey Professor, you ok?"
Jeff felt his knees buckle. He reached out to the police
car for support. "Officer, I've got to get up there right away.
I ... there are some important papers that I must get a look
at." He was pleading.
"Out of the question." A big arm restrained Jeff, already
in motion towards the building. "The place is a mess. Glass
and garbage all over. Someone torched that whole floor --
probably some kid didn't like his grades. Believe me,
Professor, it's not safe."
Jeff pulled free of the blue arm. For a second he
considered making a run to the building. But he knew it was
hopeless. He hadn't the vaguest idea what was really going on,
what had happened in the lounge. But he knew with cloying
certainty that his life was now seriously derailed.
Maybe the AWH had imploded, maybe some kid had torched the
place as the cop had said, but whatever had happened there was
no way that soft shimmering light would be there for him --
surely no way he could code it for use and enter it even if it
was there now, without a dozen witnesses looking on. A few
dozen bills out of time he could take a chance on leaving back
here; walking into the AWH with 1960s people as an audience,
maybe even trying to follow, was insane. He couldn't risk what
that would do to reality -- might do to his very existence.
So he turned and walked shakily down the street. The cop
might have said something but he couldn't hear it. The off-key
amusement park quality of the Village congealed now into a
proper smarmy nightmare. Jeff staggered a bit further, then
grabbed on to a corner lamp pole. Then he leaned over and did
what he had wanted to do for nearly two days: he threw up what
seemed like every ounce of substance in his stomach.
He looked at the mess he had made on street, and wondered
what part of that food might have come from 2084. Would be a
long, long time if ever, he knew, before he was likely to see
any of that again.
***
A Beatles' song was playing somewhere in the distance. A
DJ was talking. No historical moment, no hushed build-up. Just
the Beatles...
Jeff opened his eyes. He looked out of his window at the
street below. Mid-April sunshine coated the sidewalk like