"John Norman - Gor 01- Tarnsman of Gor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norman John)

would be the round of teas and the cocktail and supper invitations.

I liked America very much, though I was quite busy the first semester, smashing through numerous
texts in an undignified manner, attempting to commit enough English history to memory to keep at
least a reign or so ahead of my students. I discovered, to my dismay, that being English does not
automatically qualify one as an authority on English history. Fortunately, my departmental
chairman, a gentle, bespectacled man, whose speciality was American economic history, knew even
less than I did, or, at least, was considerate enough to allow me to believe so.

The Christmas vacation helped greatly. I was especially counting on the time between the semesters
to catch up, or, better, to lengthen my lead on the students. But after the term papers, the
tests, and the grading of the first semester, I was afflicted with a rather irresistible desire to
chuck the British Empire and go for a long, long walk
indeed, even a camping trip in the nearby White Mountains.


file:///F|/rah/John%20Norman/Tarnsman%20of%20Gor.txt (1 of 98) [1/20/03 3:36:21 AM]
 file:///F|/rah/John%20Norman/Tarnsman%20of%20Gor.txt


I borrowed some camp gear, mostly a knapsack and a sleeping bag, from one of the few friends I had
made on the faculty-an instructor also, but in the deplorable subject of physical education. He
and I had fenced occasionally and had gone for infrequent walks. I sometimes wonder if he is
curious about what happened to his camp gear or to Tarl Cabot. Surely the administration of the
college was curious, and angry at the inconvenience of having to replace an instructor in the
middle of the year, for Tarl Cabot was never heard of again on the campus of that college.

My friend in the physical education department drove me a few miles into the mountains and dropped
me off. We agreed to meet again in three days at the same place. The first thing I did was check
my compass, as if I knew what I was up to, and then proceeded to leave the highway well behind me.
More quickly than I realized, I was alone and in the woods, climbing. Bristol, as you know, is a
heavily urbanized area, and I was not well prepared for my first encounter with nature. Surely the
college, though somewhat rural, was at least one of the outworks of, say, material civilization. I
was not frightened, being confident that walking steadily in any given direction would be sure to
bring me to one highway or another, or some stream or another, and that it would be impossible to
become lost, or at least for long. Primarily, I was exhilarated, being alone, with myself and the
green pines and patches of snow.

I trudged along for the better part of two hours before I finally yielded to the weight of the
pack. I ate a cold lunch and was on my way again, getting deeper into the mountains. I was pleased
that I had regularly taken a turn or two around the college track.

That evening I dropped my pack near a rock platform and set about gathering some wood for a fire.
I had gone a bit from my makeshift camp when I stopped, startled for a moment. Something in the
darkness, to the left, lying on the ground, seemed to be glowing. It held a calm, hazy blue
radiance. I put down the wood I had gathered and approached the object, more curious than anything
else. It appeared to be a rectangular metal envelope, rather thin, not much larger than the normal
envelope one customarily uses for correspondence. I touched it; it seemed to be hot. My hair rose
on the back of my head; my eyes widened. I read, in a rather archaic English script inscribed on
the envelope, two: words-my name, Tarl Cabot.