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

he could stop the JFK assassination in Dallas, nothing that he
did now would make much difference. If not, well...
The Delta was a sardine can, and Jeff sat white knuckled in
a window seat waiting for take-off. Finally it began making
taxiing noises, the comforting rumblings of some great beast's
innards, and Jeff leaned back and tried to relax. The
stewardess had a tight skirt on, pitching her derriere right at
him, better view than the window.
Well, so far his rating of 1963 was food and decor not too
good, women a distinct possibility. This seemed in line with
that refrain from the classic Woody Guthrie song about the
social fallout of relativity: Can't go North, can't go South,
or up, down, anymore. But I can still go in and out, Mr.
Einstein, I can still go in and out...
It remained to be seen whether he could get in and out of
the Book Depository in time.
***
The 707 pierced like a needle through the remnants of haze
over Dallas. Jeff peered through his peephole at the airport
below as the captain announced they'd be landing momentarily.
 He had so little time. Everything depended on his getting
to the Book Depository as quickly as possible. He'd shove
through lines, jump over turnstiles, knock down people if he had
to. No gesture of asinine civility could be allowed to slow his
exit.
The screech of aircraft hitting the ground hiked his pulse.
He felt the seconds ticking, each in phase with his pounding
blood. He braced for the performance. He could see nothing
but taxi at the end of the tunnel, the taxi that would bring him
face-to-face with God-knew-what at the Book Depository.
The plane shuddered still. Its doors grumbled open.
Debarking passengers spilled like mindless ooze into the
terminal. But one of their number was more minded than he'd
ever been in his life: single-minded in his determination to
dive into that cab. Get out of my way, you goddamn fools. I
don't have time to say sorry.
Jeff swam in powerful strokes through the current, half-way
through the terminal, now three-quarters through and almost out.
Every shred of his being, every ounce of his purpose, was
focused on closing this last little gap to the exit. He was
almost believing that maybe he would stop the assassination
after all, maybe this was the way indeed that he was destined to
save the space program. He saw JFK's face before him,
superimposed on the Challenger, superimposed on the flames,
superimposed on innumerable stars...
Which was why he never saw the towering cart of luggage
that fell upon him less than three feet from the glass doors,
and knocked him unconscious.
***
He opened his eyes to a throbbing headache and blurry white