"Richard Matheson - What Dreams May Come" - читать интересную книгу автора (Matheson Richard)

reasoned something out despite the dullness of my mind. I couldn't possibly be that man in the
bed. He was in a patient's gown, bandaged, fed by tubes. I was dressed, unbandaged, mobile. Total
difference.

A man in street clothes was approaching me. I expected him to pass me. Instead, to my surprise, he
put his hand on my shoulder and stopped me. I could feel the pressure of each separate finger on
my flesh.

"Do you know what's happened yet?" he asked.

"Happened?"


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"Yes." He nodded. "You've died."

I looked at him in disgust. "That's absurd," I said.

"It's true."

"If I were dead, I wouldn't have a brain," I told him, "I couldn't talk to you."

"It doesn't work that way," he persisted.

"The man in that room is dead, not me." I said, "I'm under anesthesia, being operated on. In
essence, I'm dreaming." I was pleased by my analysis.

"No, Chris," he said.

I felt a chill. How did he know my name? I peered at him closely. Did I know him? Was that why
he'd appeared in my dream?

No; not at all. I felt distaste for him. Anyway, I thought (the idea made me smile despite my
irritation) this was my dream and he had no claim to it. "Go find your own dream," I said,
gratified by the cleverness of my dismissal.

"If you don't believe me, Chris," he told me, "look in the waiting room. Your wife and children
are there. They haven't been told yet that you've died."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute." I pointed my finger at him, jabbing at the air. "You're the one
who told me not to fight it, aren't you?"

He started to reply but I was so incensed by that I wouldn't let him speak. "I'm tired of you and
tired of this stupid place," I said. "I'm going home."

Something pulled me from him instantaneously. It was as though my body was encased in metal with a
distant magnet drawing me to itself. I hurtled through the air so fast I couldn't see or hear a