"H. Beam Piper - Time and Time Again" - читать интересную книгу автора (Piper H Beam)

That was ridiculous. He was a man of forty-three; an army officer, a chemist, once a best-selling novelist.
He had been married, and divorced ten years ago. He looked again at his body. It was only twelve years
old. Fourteen, at the very oldest. His eyes swept the room, wide with wonder. Every detail was familiar:
the flower-splashed chair covers; the table that served as desk and catch-all for his possessions; the
dresser, with its mirror stuck full of pictures of aircraft. It was the bedroom of his childhood home. He
swung his legs over the edge of the bed. They were six inches too short to reach the floor.

For an instant, the room spun dizzily; and he was in the grip of utter panic, all confidence in the evidence
of his senses lost. Was he insane? Or delirious? Or had the bomb really killed him; was this what death
was like? What was that thing, about "ye become as little children"? He started to laugh, and his juvenile
larynx made giggling sounds. They seemed funny, too, and aggravated his mirth. For a little while, he was
on the edge of hysteria and then, when he managed to control his laughter, he felt calmer. If he were
dead, then he must be a discarnate entity, and would be able to penetrate matter. To his relief, he was
unable to push his hand through the bed. So he was alive; he was also fully awake, and, he hoped,
rational. He rose to his feet and prowled about the room, taking stock of its contents.

There was no calendar in sight, and he could find no newspapers or dated periodicals, but he knew that it
was prior to July 18, 1946. On that day, his fourteenth birthday, his father had given him a light .22 rifle,
and it had been hung on a pair of rustic forks on the wall. It was not there now, nor ever had been. On
the table, he saw a boys' book of military aircraft, with a clean, new dustjacket; the flyleaf was inscribed:
To Allan Hartley, from his father, on his thirteenth birthday, 7/18 '45. Glancing out the window at
the foliage on the trees, he estimated the date at late July or early August, 1945; that would make him just
thirteen.

His clothes were draped on a chair beside the bed. Stripping off his pajamas, he donned shorts, then sat
down and picked up a pair of lemon-colored socks, which he regarded with disfavor. As he pulled one
on, a church bell began to clang. St. Boniface, up on the hill, ringing for early Mass; so this was Sunday.
He paused, the second sock in his hand.

There was no question that his present environment was actual. Yet, on the other hand, he possessed a
set of memories completely at variance with it. Now, suppose, since his environment were not an illusion,
everything else were? Suppose all these troublesome memories were no more than a dream? Why, he
was just little Allan Hartley, safe in his room on a Sunday morning, badly scared by a nightmare! Too
much science fiction, Allan; too many comic books!

That was a wonderfully comforting thought, and he hugged it to him contentedly. It lasted all the while he
was buttoning up his shirt and pulling on his pants, but when he reached for his shoes, it evaporated. Ever
since he had wakened, he realized, he had been occupied with thoughts utterly incomprehensible to any
thirteen-year-old; even thinking in words that would have been so much Sanscrit to himself at thirteen. He
shook his head regretfully. The just-a-dream hypothesis went by the deep six.

He picked up the second shoe and glared at it as though it were responsible for his predicament. He was
going to have to be careful. An unexpected display of adult characteristics might give rise to some
questions he would find hard to answer credibly. Fortunately, he was an only child; there would be no
brothers or sisters to trip him up. Old Mrs. Stauber, the housekeeper, wouldn't be much of a problem;
even in his normal childhood, he had bulked like an intellectual giant in comparison to her. But his
fatherтАФ

Now, there the going would be tough. He knew that shrewd attorney's mind, whetted keen on a