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

theorizing had left them no closer to knowing who had killed
Kennedy than the unsatisfying "lone nut" explanation of the
Warren Commission.
One thing Jeff did know: the assassination of JFK probably
did more to ultimately harm the prospects of humans in space
than even the horrible Challenger disaster. His team had
briefly considered sending him back here to 1963 in the first
place, but rejected it on the grounds that too much was still
unknown about the assassination for them to mount an effective
plan to stop it. So here Jeff was without a plan anyway...
rushing like a moth to a flame that he had little chance of
extinguishing, but was too attractive to resist...
"Any special terminal, Mac?" The grunt drew Jeff back to
the real world, though this ride seemed scarcely more real than
his musings. He looked at his watch and whistled. This old
gasser had gotten him to the airport in under an hour.
"American Airlines, Chief, and thanks." Jeff set his watch to
the time on the foolish-looking clock pasted on the cabbie's
dashboard. It was now 1:07 in the morning of November 22.
He paid in dirty dollar bills printed 20 years in the
future and sprinted into the terminal, a garish but not
uncharming combination of wine red carpet and shiny chrome
trimming. It reminded Jeff of early technicolor movies. He
ducked into the men's room, unpacked clothes from his suitcase,
and shortly emerged a stylish 80s businessman. He expected
this wouldn't cause too much of a problem -- if his clothes
looked a little odd, people would likely chalk that up to his
dressing European. There was more difference in hemispheric
styles in this century.
He approached what appeared to be a mock-wood ticket desk.
The pert red-headed kewpie-doll behind the counter added to his
feeling that he was in an ancient film. "Am I in time for the
late-night flight to Dallas?" he asked with his friendliest
smile.
"Oh, I'm very sorry, sir, but our last flight to Dallas
left at 12:30. Our next one leaves at 8:00 this morning, and I
believe that Delta has a flight that leaves at 6:20. Shall I
make a reservation for you?"
Damn. "Could you tell me what time the Delta flight
arrives in Dallas?"
She pulled out a paper directory and checked. "Nine
fifty-seven Dallas time, sir. Shall I make the reservation?"
"Yes, please do," Jeff said, "and could you point me in the
direction of the airport hotel?" Jeff paid in cash -- he had a
bunch of credit cards too, but they were all hopelessly out of
date, in the wrong way. She counted the money and Jeff held his
breath. The bills were small denomination, suitably soiled,
from the 1970s. She didn't notice anything askew.
Jeff walked slowly to the end of the terminal. It would be
ridiculously close in Dallas -- even if the plane landed on