"Doorsways in the Sand 04" - читать интересную книгу автора (Varley John)

"Keep the pack," he said. "I am a pipe smoker of sorts. You, by the way, are more in need of rest and nourishment than nicotine. I am monitoring your heartbeat, blood pressure and basal metabolism rate on a small device I have with me-"
"Don't let it worry you, though," said Ragma, helping himself to a cigarette and producing a light from somewhere. "Charv is a hypochondriac. But I do think we ought to get back to our vessel before we talk. You are still not out of danger."
"Vessel? What sort? Where is it?"
"About a quarter of a mile from here," Charv offered, "and Ragma is correct. It will be safer if we depart this place immediately."
"I'll have to take your word for it," I said. "But you were looking for me-me specifically-weren't you? You knew my name. You seem to know something about me..."
"Then you have answered your own question," Ragma replied. "We had reason to believe you were in danger and we were correct."
"How? How did you know?"
They glanced at each other.
"Sorry," Ragma said. "That's another."
"Another what?"
"Thing we are not permitted to say."
"Who does your permitting and forbidding?"
"That's another."
I sighed. "Okay. I guess I'm up to walking that far. If I'm not, you'll know in a hurry."
"Very good," said Charv as I got to my feet.
I felt steadier this time up, and it must have been apparent. He nodded, turned and began moving away with a very unkangaroolike gait. I followed, and Ragma remained at my side. He maintained a bipedal posture this time.
The terrain was fairly level, so the going was not too bad. After a couple of minutes' movement, I was even able to work up some enthusiasm at the thought of the peanut-butter sandwich. Before I could comment on my improved condition, however, Ragma shouted something in Alienese.
Charv responded and took off at an accelerated pace, almost tripping over the lower extremities of his disguise.
Ragma turned to me. "He is going ahead to warm things up," he said, "for a quick liftoff. If you are capable of moving faster, please do so."
I complied as best I could, and "Why the rush?" I inquired.
"My hearing is quite sensitive," he said, "and I have just detected the fact that Zeemeister and Buckler are now airborne. This would seem to indicate that they are either looking for you or departing. It is always best to plan for the worst."
"I take it that they are my uninvited guests and that their names are something you are permitted to say. What do they represent?"
"They are doodlehums."
"Doodlehums?"
"Antisocial individuals, intentional circumventors of statutes."
"Oh, hoodlums. Yes, I guessed that much on my own. What can you tell me about them?"
"Morton Zeemeister," he said, "indulges in many such activities. He is the heavy one with the pale fur. Normally, he remains away from the scene of his hoodling, employing agents to execute it for him. The other, Jamie Buckler, is one such. He has hoodled well for Zeemeister over the years and was recently promoted by him to guard his body."
My own body was protesting the increased pace at that point, so I was not immediately certain whether the humming in my ears-was the product of a tidal bore in my river of red stuff or the sound of the sinister bird. Ragma removed all doubt.
"They are coming this way," he said, "quite rapidly. Are you able to run?"
"I'll try," I said, forcing myself.
The ground dipped, rose again. Ahead, then, I was able to make out what I took to be their vessel: a squashed bell of dull metal, duller squares that might be ports spotted irregularly about its perimeter, an opened hatch. . . My lungs were working like a concertina at a Polish wedding and I felt the first spray of the tide of darkness within my head. I was going to go under again, I knew.
Then came that familiar flicker, as of having taken a step back from reality. I knew that my blood was pooling in my guts, leaving me high and dry, and I resented my subservience to the hydraulics involved. I heard gunshots above the growing roar, as on the soundtrack for a distant show, and even this was not sufficient to draw me back. When your own adrenalin lets you down, who is there left to trust?
I wanted very badly to make it to that hatch and through it. It was not all that distant. I knew now that I would not. An absurd way to die. This near, and not understanding anything. . .
"I'm going!" I shouted toward the bounding form at my side, not knowing whether the words really came out that way.
The sounds of gunfire continued, tiny as elfin popcorn. Fewer than forty feet remained, I was certain, as I judge local distances in terms of horseshoe-court lengths. Raising my arms to shield my face, I fell, not knowing whether I had been hit, scarcely able to care, forward, into a smooth blank that canceled the ground, the sound, the trouble, my flight.

Thus, thus, so and thus: awakening as a thing of textures and shadings: advancing and retreating along a scale of soft/dark, smooth/shadow, slick/bright: all else displaced and translated to this: the colors, sounds and balances a function of these two.
Advance to hard and very bright. Fall back to soft and black...
"Do you hear me, Fred?"-the twilight velvet.
"Yes"-my glowing scales.
"Better, better, better. . ."
"What/who?"
"Closer, closer, that not a sound betray .. ."
"There?"
"Better, that cease the subvocals . . ."
"I do not understand."
"Later for that. But one thing, a thing to say: Article 7224, Section C. Say it."
"Article 7224, Section C. Why?"
"If they wish to take you away-and they will-say it. But not why. Remember."
"Yes, but-"