"Perry, Steve - OtherToys" - читать интересную книгу автора (Perry Steven)

for my blasphemy. I was weak, I know, I found anger where there should never
have been any. I deserve this state. I deserve to die for having raised my voice
against You. I ask that You consider my pain as an excuse -- not really a
justifiable excuse, I know, but all my withered mind can offer. When you have
frolicked with God, to be left alone is a wound from which you cannot easily
recover. It made me mad, there can be no other answer. In my grief and pain and
fear, I cried out, and thus condemned myself.

You know this. Of course You know, You who are All Things.

I ask for Your forgiveness even as I am east down into the depths of The Pit.

I was unworthy of Your love; I failed You, and I will spend Eternity in sorrow
and regret for my weakness. Forgive me . . .

Cartas found the cave. The stink of seaweed permeated the air, and it was
getting really cold. The wind cut at him, found the openings in his worn leather
jacket, polished his bare head as it passed. Fog was forming and rolling in.

He felt the sense of dread he'd been expecting but he pushed on. He saw the
lights from inside, a couple of kids leaving carrying plastic coolers and green
plastic trash bags as they left. They were laughing enjoying themselves, full of
life and youth. He couldn't remember feeling that way.

Cartas moved closer, picking his way across the rocky shoreline. The tide was in
and the path was narrow. He slipped a couple of times on the slimy rocks, nearly
fell, but managed to keep to his feet. By the time he'd gone up the slight
incline to reach the cave's mouth, he was cold and out of breath. Twenty years
ago he could have made it without breathing hard. Fifteen years before that he
would have danced across the treacherous rocks at a run and never worried about
falling. Nor would he have fallen.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

A tall, thin, ruddy man with salt and pepper hair, dressed in a windbreaker over
a T-shirt and blue jeans stood there, staring at him.

"I'm Jack Cartas," he said, finally getting his wind back. "I'm a reporter-"

"Out, out!" the man said, shooing at him as though he were some kind of small
pest. "We aren't ready for the media, this entire area is off-limits!"

A second man, much younger, wearing braids and a questioning look, came up from
the depression behind the older man.

"Are you Professor Lipton?"

"Yes, I am, but you'll have to leave. You have no right to be here."

Cartas nodded. "Boy, that's true. But I have to take a look at him before I