"Michael McCollum - Beer Run" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCollum Michael)

BEER RUN
Michael McCollum
What if you went out for a six-pack and never came back?



It was midwinter, one of those crystal clear nights where the almost freezing wind whips in off the desert
from the east and the moon bathes everything in a bright, pearly glow. Hal, my landlord, was off to a
science fiction convention back East and the UFO Spotters were using our place -- a dilapidated
rooming house in the old section of Tempe near the University -- for their monthly meeting. Being the
only roomer in residence (the others having taken off for parts unknown, it being semester break), I was
assigned the job of keeping them from tearing up the place and making sure the cops had no probable
cause for a drug bust.

They came drifting in about eight. By the time the formal meeting had started, there were fifty-odd
people scattered in the various nooks and crannies around the old house. And I mean fifty odd people!
In Hal's absence, Weasel Martin took over the meeting. Weasel is a short, bearded graduate student
whose most prominent feature is his nervous tic. He banged on a table with a wooden spoon to get their
attention and called the meeting to order.

I was in the kitchen dishing out taco chips and bean dip. Jane Dugway was helping me, as well as pulling
the pop-tops off two dozen cans of Coors. Somehow, they managed to disappear into the other room
as fast as she opened them.

I had first met Jane at school. Although I am an engineering major, the University is determined that I get
a well-rounded education. Therefore, in order to complete my eight hours of social studies required to
graduate, I took a course in Anthropology. Jane was a graduate student in Anthro and my discussion
group leader for one semester. She is not one of those lucky women blessed with the gift of beauty. Her
hair has a terminal case of the frizzies, and the coke bottle glasses do nothing to improve her image.
However, there is a mind behind that mannish face of hers that is as sharp as a razor blade.

We carried the taco chips and bean dip into the living room just as Weasel Martin called for old
business. PeeJay Schwarz got to his feet and began an excited narrative about an Alabama farmer who
claimed to have been to the moon on a flying saucer. Weasel ruled him out of order. PeeJay sat down
with a thump and a pout on his face.

After that, things settled down considerably. It might as well have been a meeting of the League of
Women Voters, with everything run in strict adherence to Robert's Rules of Order. I was fast losing
interest when Joel Peterson decided to get the evening's debate launched. Joel is a prissy sociology
major who wears bow ties with his blue denim shirts and dirty Levi's. He revels in being the club skeptic
and is especially skilled in sparking controversy.

"I don't believe in UFOs," he declared loudly. "Not as interstellar visitors, anyway."

There was a murmured undercurrent in the crowd -- something like you see in the movies just before the
lynching. Weasel Martin got red in the face and prepared to smite the unbeliever.

"Then you're dumber than you look," he said to Joel. There was a scattered round of applause and a
couple of muttered comments that that must be pretty dumb, considering his looks.
I had to give Joel credit. He stood his ground. "What makes you think UFOs aren't just a mammoth