"Kevin O'Donnel Jr. - The Journeys of McGill Feighan 03 - Lava" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Donnell Jr Kevin)

patronymics; I had thought all names beginning with 'Mc' were surnames."
"Usually they are." Feighan shifted his gaze to check the wall clock. He
had twelve minutes left. "But, ah, in this case, it's my given name."
"FascinatingтАж" It seemed very much at ease, with its short thick legs
buried in the carpet's pile, and the sunlight rubbing its back. "Your language
is a source of constant wonder to meтАФin part because it has no exact term to
describe my vocation."
Ten minutes. "Listen, H'nik, I am sorry to be rude, but I have to report
for work in a very short while. AhтАж" He did not know the diplomatic thing
to say. "Why exactly did you want to see me?"
"I do apologize, McGill Feighan. I am slow and verbose. It would take
more time than you have for me to explain precisely why I have taken the
liberty of calling on you. Perhaps when you are finished for the day, we
might talk together, and I could elucidate."
"That sounds good." He glanced at the wall clock again. Nine-fifty-two.
Scratch the doughnuts. "I finish for the day in twelve hours."
H'nik flexed its legs and wobbled upright, then began to creep out of the
pool of sun. "I will wait for you in the hall. Should I not respond to your call,
shine a strong light on me for perhaps ten of your minutes; that should
activate me."
He looked at Sam, who shrugged. "Activate?"
"The paucity of light, you see, causes something akin to your sleep; it is a
natural physiological response, however, and nothing to be alarmed about."
"McGill," said Sam suddenly, "heтАФit can wait here. On the terrace.
There's lots of sun out there."
He wished he could ask his ward if their visitor were on the levelтАФbut
then, Sam would not have made the offer if he were suspicious of H'nik.
"Okay. H'nikтАФplease, make yourself at home until I come back. Sam will
get you anything you need or would like orтАФor whatever."
"Thank you very much. It is most gracious of you."
"No problem. I'll see you both later." He had less than a minute to make
it to work. Stepping back, symbolically to distance himself from the other
two, he closed His eyes. Summoning his Talent, that inborn,
out-of-this-world skill that only one Terran in ten million possessed, he
concentrated on himself: tall; broad shoulders veeing into a
seventy-centimeter waist; thumbs hooked into the corners of his pants
pockets; boots reflecting the glitter of his tunic in their gloss. At the same
time, he visualized his destination: the small, white-walled chamber at the
Flinger Building on Long Island, the one with the fluorescent lights that
hummed and the white-tiled floor that no amount of scrubbing could ever
rid of heelmarks. And in the seeing he juxtaposed the two images, feeling
how the one belonged inside the other, knowing how to make it so, andтАФ
*PING*
тАФhe began to teleport. It was instantaneous, but time is relative; from
within a Fling lasts forever. Space explo/lapsed. He grew yet shrank. In one
and the same perceived instant, he ballooned to twice the universe's size,
yet the smallest subatomic particle dwarfed him. The insanity of shredded
time and space came through as pain: a tearing, a rending. It lasted longer
than could possibly be enduredтАФalmost long enough to sense. And then his
sizes changed again, the one shrinking and the other growing, until they