"Christopher Pike - The Immortal" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pike Christopher)

I brushed my teeth and washed my face. Then I used the toilet, and that thing almost took off my butt
when I flushed it. Incredible suction--I could have believed I was on the Space Shuttle. As I left the
lavatory I asked a flight attendant if I could have a hit of orange juice, and he handed me a cup, made me
drink it on the spot, and then told me to get in my seat. But the blue ocean, incredibly gorgeous in the first
morning light, still looked a mile below us, so I rambled up to first class to see my dad.

He was sharing a joke with redheaded Silk. Outside of Hollywood, they would be an unlikely pair. Dad
had balding gray hair that had failed to respond to transplants and rolls of fat that were immune to fad
CHRISTOPHER PIKE

diets--he was a battered fifty. Silk must have passed her midthirties, although she was still striving to be
ready for teenage auditions. Her face was great, but hard somehow. Her firm chin may have been an
implant. Her green eyes were definitely contacts. But that hair--I had to grant that Silk had hair worthy
of her nickname. It flowed all the way down to her butt, which had ridden the most expensive exercise
bicycles in Beverly Hills.

But in Hollywood such couples were natural. An out-of-work actress of questionable talent latching onto
an out-of-work screenwriter of immense talent. Who was hoping for more? Daddy or Silky? In their own
sad way they did fit together.

Sad for me.

"Hi, guys," I said, interrupting their chuckles. "Did you miss me?"

"Josie," Dad said. "We checked on you an hour ago and you were out for the count."

"You were snoring like a pig," Silk said.

I gave the sweetest smile. "At least I get it out of my system when I'm asleep," I told her.

"Jo," Dad muttered.

"Daddy," I said innocently.

But I hadn't insulted Silk, because she was too stupid to realize it. Or maybe I was wrong about that.
Sometimes, when I was feeling paranoid, I wondered if Silk took in everything and simply filed it away
for future reference, when her position was stronger.
THE IMMORTAL

"I cannot rest a moment on a plane without my blue bomber," was all Silk said.

"What the hell is that?" I asked.

"A sleeping pill," my dad said dryly. "Be grateful you slept, Josie. We're getting in early. You'll be ready
for the sun and the water and we'll be in bed." He looked tired. "At least I got some writing done."

"Did you?" I asked hopefully. My father always brought his laptop computer when he traveled, but he
seldom did anything more on it than write letters. He was currently doodling on a sci-fi script that he
hoped would put him back on the studio executive lunch circuit. But he had writer's block--no, it was
more like writer's wall, writer's mountain, writer's black hole. He hadn't had an original idea in the past