"John F. Rosmann - The Mind Masters 01 - The Mind Masters" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rosmann John F)

touch starts tear water flowing which cools his fatigue-fevered eyeball. He blinks.
Britt's vision is slightly blurred now as he glances up at the rearview mirror. CHRIST! The word explodes silently
in his mind.
The headlights of a lone car are closing in on Mm-fast.
CHP again ... DAMN!
Britt's brain evaluates in an eyeblink his chances of ac-celerating away: the thirty-mile stretch of freeway ahead is
straight and empty ... the California Highway Patrol cruiser can sprint to 130 miles per hour but is no match for the
sustained 160 mph which Britt's blood-red Ferrari can maintain.
Caught again in the infamous Cucamonga speed trap. A tight, wry grin of resignation flashes unseen in the
blackness across Britt's lips as the Ferrari begins to respond to his brain and his foot and slows slightly. But, now, a
warning signal suddenly flashes from an upper level of Britt's subconscious. His eyes dart again to the mirror: Wait a
minute , . . that's no CHP unit... and whoever it is, he's really moving!
Britt's memory neurons are quickly activated. Electro-chemical impulses leap with nanosecond speed from neuron
to neuron, energizing the protein molecule chains on which the day's events have been stored. Britt's memory bank
search is completed in an instant-results: negative: . . . no . . . 1 was the last driver to leave the track tonight . . . I'm
sure no one else was still there . . . so who the hell could that be closing in on me?
Britt's eyes snap ahead. There is no moon. The night's darkness is thick, oppressive. The Ferrari's beams probe
out
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into the galactic blackness and reveal nothing but rows of gleaming plastic lane reflectors which are sweeping past the
hurtling machine like shooting stars. Britt cannot see the mighty San Gabriel mountains which parallel the freeway
sev-eral miles from its northern flank-but he knows the for-bidding peaks are there, looming in the blackness. He can
feel their presence, like a mammoth burden on his right shoulder as he drives.
Another second has ticked away. Now Britt's eyes again dart up to the rearview mirror: Where'd he go!?l
The strange pursuing car has disappeared.
Britt's brain knows instantly that he has not passed an off-ramp in at least a mile. A sudden stab of confusion is
instantly superseded by the subtle impact on Britt's senses of a small change in his cockpit environment-a barely
percepti-ble increase in the illumination level. Britt's eyes flick a glance out the right side window in time to see the
headlights and streamlined nose of a sleek coupe pulling abreast of his still-speeding Ferrari.
The phantom car is suddenly pounding along just inches from Britt's machine while his brain races, searching for an
explanation. The experience and logic circuits of his brain tell Britt that there is no vehicle in the world capable of
closing the gap between the cars in only the instant he had glanced at the road ahead.
Britt looks ahead no more. His eyes focus hypnotically on the strange machine, his brain's logic systems are being
short-circuited with perceptual information that does not compute. He stares for several seconds, only subliminally
aware of the leaden numbness that is creeping through his limbs.
OH, GOD!... GOD ... OH, GOD!!!
Britt's brain explodes, staggers, tries to reject, then explain the grinning face it sees glowing ghostly green in the
dash-lights of the strange machine that streaks along menacingly close to his speeding Ferrari.
"Gayle!" Britt cries aloud.
Gayle. Poor dead Gayle.
Before Britt's benumbed brain can react, the phantom car accelerates rapidly away. Quickly, Britt stomps on the
Fer-rari's gas pedal, holding it hard against the firewall. A low moan seeps into the car's cockpit as its engine's six dual
Weber carburetors open wide their throats and inhale deep the damp midnight air. Britt ignores the soaring speed-
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ometer needle. He would drive into eternity to learn the mystery of the phantom car.
Flashing lane reflectors become a shower of streaking meteors as the two machines bellow through the awful night.
The pursued machine now veers suddenly, wildly skidding toward an exit. Britt follows, his Ferrari's tires shrieking,
shredding chunks of tread as they claw into the concrete curve of the off-ramp. Up deserted small-town streets the
two machines hurtle while street lamps swoop overhead like attacking comets. On and on the machines roar through
the night, the banshee wail of their mechanical hearts ripping the shroud of silence that darkly drapes the quiet streets