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

Feeling rather foolish, I took out the can opener I had used on the chili can and attempted to
force the metal point through the envelope. Light as the envelope seemed to be, it resisted the
point as if I were trying to open an anvil. I leaned on the can opener with both arms, pressing
down with all my weight. The point of the can opener bent into a right angle, but the envelope had
not: been scratched.

I handled the envelope carefully, puzzled, trying to determine if it might be opened. There was a
small circle on the back of the envelope, and in the circle seemed to be the print of a thumb. I
wiped it on my sleeve, but it did not disappear. The other prints on the envelope, from my
fingers, wiped away immediately. As well as I could, I scrutinized the print in the circle. It,
too, like the lettering, seemed a part of the metal, yet its ridges and. lineaments were
exceedingly delicate.

At last I was confident that it was a part of the envelope. I pressed it with my finger; nothing
happened. Tired of this strange business, I set the envelope aside and; turned my attention to the
chili, which was now bubbling over the small campfire. After I had eaten, I re-'┬░ moved my boots
and coat and crawled into the sleeping bag.

I lay there beside the dying fire, looking up at the branch-lined sky and the mineral glory of the
unconscious universe. I lay awake for a long time, feeling alone, yet not alone, as one sometimes
does in the wilderness, feeling as if one were the only living object on the planet and as if the
closest things to one-one's fate and destiny perhaps-lay outside our small world, somewhere in the
remote, alien pastures of the stars.

A thought struck me with sudden swiftness, and I was .. afraid, but I knew what I must do. The
matter of the envelope was not a hoax, not a trick. Somewhere, deep in .whatever I am, I knew that
and had known it from the beginning. Almost as if dreaming, yet with vivid clarity, I inched
partly out of my sleeping bag. I rolled over,, and threw some wood on the fire and reached for the
envelope. Sitting in the sleeping bag, I waited for the fire to rise a bit. Then I carefully
placed my right thumb on the impression in the envelope, pressing down firmly. It answered to my
touch, as I had expected it to, as I .
had feared it would. Perhaps only one man could open that envelope-he whose print fitted the
strange lock, he whose name was Tarl Cabot. The apparently seamless envelope crackled open, almost
with the sound of cellophane.

An object fell from the envelope, a ring of red metal bearing the simple crest "C." I barely
noticed it in my excitement. There was lettering on the inside of the envelope, which had opened
in a manner surprisingly like a foreign air-mail letter, where the envelope serves also as
stationery. The lettering was in the same script as my name on the outside of the envelope. I
noticed the date and froze, my hands clenched on the metallic paper. It was dated the third of
February, 1640. It was dated more than three hundred years ago, and I was reading it in the sixth
decade of the twentieth century. Oddly enough, also, the day on which I was reading it was the
third of February. The signature at the bottom was not in the old script, but might have been done
in modern cursive English.

I had seen the signature once or twice before, on some letters my aunt had saved. I knew the
signature, though I could not remember the man. It was the signature of my father, Matthew Cabot,