"Patrick Welch - Westchester Station extract" - читать интересную книгу автора (Welch Patrick)

Westchester Station
an extract from the novel
by Patrick Welch

Foreword

This self-contained segment from Westchester Station has appeared
previously in Millennium and Dark Matters. The book detailing the complete
advertures of Robert Winstead in the intertimensional train station is now
available for download from Crossroads Publishing. I also have a web site
for the book, which includes a different excerpt, the cover art and
reviews.

The Attendant

Westchester Station. An intertimensional train depot lying somewhere
between Chicago and eternity. I, Robert Winstead, was brought here by
someone I did not know for some purpose I had yet to discover. But I also
knew that only by fulfilling that purpose would I be allowed to
leave...assuming I survived the journey. Somewhere among the hallways and
denizens of this haunted environment I would find the answer. I had to.
After my experience with the Minotaur, I was relieved to find the sign
proclaiming "Mens" in several different languages and symbols. My travails
in the labyrinth had left me tired and dirty; I needed to refresh myself.
I would not have felt that way in New York City, but I was confident that
no horde of prostitutes would be waiting inside to harangue patrons.
Indeed, I was pleased to find the interior old-fashioned but clean,
outfitted with all necessary hardware and empty save for an old man
wearing an extremely oversized coat seated near the corner.
I was even more grateful when hot water poured from the faucet. This was
indeed not Grand Central Station! I rolled up my sleeves, removed my tie
and proceeded to wash up as thoroughly as possible without undressing
more. I brushed as much dirt as I could from my now-ruined slacks, then
reached for the towels.
There were none. I stood there with water running down my neck and arms,
looking up and down the row of basins. No towels, no air jets, nothing. I
turned and looked to the old man still seated in the corner. "Excuse me,"
I called out, "but I don't suppose you would know if they have any
towels?"
The man shook himself, as if slowly rousing from a deep sleep. I knew he
hadn't been, however, because I had noticed him several times in the
mirror studiously watching me. He maintained the charade, however, long
enough for me to ask once again. "A towel, you say? Let me see. A towel."
He sat for a second, said something, and wriggled his fingers in some
strange manner. Seemingly satisfied, he reached into his coat and pulled
out some implement. He looked at it, then shook his head. "No, that's a
trowel." He looked at me, apologetic. "Be patient, sir; I'm sure I can
summon one." Then he repeated his actions and returned his hand to his
coat. I stood, dripping and getting colder by the minute while he seemed
to search every nook and cranny of his voluminous garment. Finally he