"Man Off A White Horse" - читать интересную книгу автора (Myers Howard L)

This was the real thing. Barfield was gloriously sure of that. Not just a dream,
like it had been a thousand times before. This time he was really astride a
powerful white stallion, drawing looks of admiration, fear, and respect from
hundreds of upturned faces as he rode through Central Park.
It couldn't be a dream, because he never thought to wonder about that when he
was dreaming. And a dream wasn't this real.
Just to make sure, he studied the reins gripped lightly in his right hand.
Genuine leather, all right, with blood-red rubies attached in little square
silver mountings that were pointy at the corners. Certainly no dream contained
detailed stuff like that.
Was he going to fall off? Not in a hundred years! The dream intensifier had
finally worked, and simply by dreaming of riding, he had learned to ride.
A family of picnickers scattered in all directions as he galloped his horse over
their spread cloth. He roared with laughter to see them jump, their faces pale
with terror. He towered over them for a moment, then rode on...
... Into a swarm of high-society chicks having a lawn party. He picked a choice
one and swept her up in front of him.
"Barfield!" she exclaimed, recognizing him.
"Yeah." He knew who she was, tooЧJacqueline Onassis' granddaughterЧbut he wasn't
going to give her the pleasure of letting her know he knew.
He stood in the stirrups and quickly had his satisfaction with her. Then he let
her slide from the horse to sprawl panting and indecent on the grass.
His horse was now climbing a hill, going up fast in powerful hinges. All the
world lay below him, below the magnificent Barfield.
They topped the hill crest. The down slope on the other side was dizzyingly
steep. Barfield gasped and cringed back. His left foot lost the stirrup and ...
. . . He was falling!

"Ugh!" he grunted as his body gave a jerk. He opened his eyes and gazed dully at
the captive across the room for a moment.
"Something wrong?" the man asked in that annoyingly confident voice of his.
"I must've dozed off," said Barfield.
He stood up, feeling as short, dumpy, and ineffectual as he knew he looked, and
walked over to check the captive's cuffs and blindfold.
"We haven't been properly introduced," the man said pleasantly. "My name's
Paxton . . . G. Donald Paxton."
"Never mind the chitchat, Body," Barfield growled. Usually a captive would show
fear when addressed as "Body," but this guy didn't turn a hair.
He saw the cuffs were still tight on wrists and ankles, and returned to his
chair, his mind returning to his dream. Funny how real it had seemed, and how
sure he had been of it. Looks like that high-society party would have been a
dead giveaway. Everybody knew upper-crust chicks didn't fool around in places
like Central Park. Besides, there'd been something on the tube about that girl
dreaming herself up a judo black belt. Nobody was going to grab her up on a
horse and get away with it.
But it had been a good dreamЧall but the last part.
"I hate to be a nuisance," said Paxton, "but I need to go to the bathroom."
Barfield got up. "No sweat, Body." He got out his keys and removed the cuffs