"Light of Other Days by Bob Shaw" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nebula Award Stories 2)

cottage door. Something heaved convulsively in my subcon-
sious.
"Selina," I shouted. "Don't open it!"
But I was too late. She had pushed open the latched
wooden door and was standing, hand over mouth, looking
into the cottage. I moved close to her and took the rug from
her unresisting fingers.
As I was closing the door I let my eyes traverse the
cottage's interior. The neat living room in which I had just
seen the woman and child was, in reality, a sickening clutter
of shabby furniture, old newspapers, cast-off clothing and
smeared dishes. It was damp, stinking and utterly deserted.
The only object I recognized from my view through the
window was the little wheelbarrow, paintless and broken.
I latched the door firmly and ordered myself to forpet what
I had seen. Some men who live alone are good housekeepers;
others just don't know how.
Selina's face was white. "I don't understand. I don't under-
stand it."
"Slow glass works both ways," I said gently. "Light passes
out of a house, as well as in."
"You mean . . . ?"
"I don't know. It isn't our business. Now steady up
Hagan's coming back with our glass." The chorning in my
stomach was beginning to subside.
Hagan came into the yard carrying an oblong, plastic-cov-
ered frame. I held the check out to him, but he was staring
at Selina's face. He seemed to know immediately that our
uncomprehending fingers had rummaged through his soul.
Selina avoided his gaze. She was old and ill-looking, and her
eyes stared determinedly towards the nearing horizon.
"I'll take the rug from you, Mr. Garland," Hagan finally
said. "You shouldn't have troubled yourself over it."
"No trouble. Here's the check."
"Thank you." He was still looking at Selina with a strange
kind of supplication. "It's been a pleasure to do business with
you."
"The pleasure was mine," I said with equal, senseless
formality. I picked up the heavy frame and guided Selina
towards the path which led to the road. Just as we reached the
head of the now slippery steps Hagan spoke again.
"Mr. Garland!"
I turned unwillingly.
"It wasn't my fault," he said steadily. "A hit-and-run driver
got them both, down on the Oban road six years ago. My boy
was only seven when it happened. I'm entitled to keep
something."
I nodded wordlessly and moved down the path, holding my
wife close to me, treasuring the feel of her arms locked
around me. At the bend I looked back through the rain and