"George R. R. Martin - WC 1 - Wild Cards" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

Then dogs all over the Pine Barrens started to bark. Cats screamed. Birds flew
in panic from thousands of trees, circled, swooping this way and that in the
dark night.
Static washed over every radio in the northeastern United States. New television
sets flared out, volume doubling. People gathered around nine-inch Dumonts
jumped back at the sudden noise and light, dazzled in their own living rooms and
bars and sidewalks outside appliance stores all over the East Coast.
To those out in that hot August night it was even more spectacular. A thin line
of light, high up, moved, brightened, still falling. Then it expanded, upping in
brilliance, changed into a blue-green bolide, seemed to stop, then flew to a
hundred falling sparks that slowly faded on the dark starlit sky. Some people
said they saw another, smaller light a few minutes later. It seemed to hover,
then sped off to the west, growing dimmer as it flew. The newspapers had been
full of stories of the "ghost rockets" in Sweden all that summer. It was the
silly season.
A few calls to the weather bureau or Army Air Force bases got the answer that it
was probably a stray from the Delta Aquarid meteor shower.
Out in the Pine Barrens, somebody knew differently, though he wasn't in the mood
to communicate it to anyone.
Jetboy, dressed in a loose pair of pants, a shirt, and a brown aviator's jacket,
walked in through the doors of the Blackwell Printing Company. There was a
bright red-and-blue sign above the door: Home of the Cosh Comics Company. He
stopped at the receptionist's desk.
"Robert Tomlin to see Mr. Farrell."
The secretary, a thin blond job in glasses with swept-up rims that made it look
like a bat was camping on her face, stared at him. "Mr. Farrell passed on in the
winter of 1945. Were you in the service or something?"
"Something."
"Would you like to speak to Mr. Lowboy? He has Mr. Farrell's job now."
"Whoever's in charge of Jetboy Comics."
The whole place began shaking as printing presses cranked up in the back of the
building. On the walls of the office were garish comic-book covers, promising
things only they could deliver.
"Robert Tomlin," said the secretary to the intercom. "Scratch squawk never heard
of him squich." "What was this about?" asked the secretary.
"Tell him Jetboy wants to see him."
"Oh," she said, looking at him. "I'm sorry. I didn't recognize you."
"Nobody ever does."
Lowboy looked like a gnome with all the blood sucked out. He was as pale as
Harry Langdon must have been, like a weed grown under a burlap bag.



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"Jetboy!" He held out a hand like a bunch of grub worms. "We all thought you'd
died until we saw the papers last week. You're a real national hero, you know?"
"I don't feel like one."
"What can I do for you? Not that I'm not pleased to finally meet you. But you