"Kate Wilhelm - And the Angels Sing" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilhelm Kate)

or two, and headed toward his own little house. On impulse he turned back and went down Second
Street to see if the kid was still scurrying around; at least he could offer her a lift home. He
knew where the Bolands lived, the two sisters, their mother, all in the trade now, apparently.
But, God, he thought, the little one couldn't be more than twelve.

The numbered streets were parallel to the coast line; the cross streets had become wind tunnels
that rocked his car every time he came to one. Second Street was empty, black. He breathed a sigh
of relief. He had not wanted to get involved anyway, in any manner, and now he could go on home,
listen to music for an hour or two, have a drink or two, a sandwich, and get some sleep. If the
wind ever let up. He slept very poorly when the wind blew this hard. What he most likely would do
was finish the book he was reading, possibly start another one. The wind was good for another four
or five hours.

Thinking this way, he made another turn or two, and then saw the kid again, this time sprawled on
the side of the road.

If he had not already seen her once, if he had not been thinking about her, about her sister and
mother, if he had been driving faster than five miles an hour, probably he would have missed her.
She lay just off the road, face down. As soon as he stopped and got out of the car, the rain hit
his face, streamed from his glasses, blinding him almost. He got his hands on the child and hauled
her to the car, yanked open the back door and deposited her inside. Only then he got a glimpse of
her face. Not the Boland girl. No one he had ever seen before. And as light as a shadow. He
hurried around to the driver's side and got in, but he could no longer see her now from the front
seat. Just the lumpish black raincoat that gleamed with water and covered her entirely. He wiped
his face, cleaned his glasses, and twisted in the seat; he couldn't reach her, and she did not
respond to his voice.

He cursed bitterly and considered his next move. She could be dead, or dying. Through the rain-
streaked windshield the town appeared uninhabited. They didn't have a police station, a clinic or
hospital, nothing. The nearest doctor was ten or twelve miles away, and in this weather... Finally
he started the engine and headed for home. He would call the state police from there, he decided.
Let them come and collect her.



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He drove up Hammer Hill to his own house and parked in the driveway at the walk that led to the
front door. He would open the door first, he had decided, then come back and get the kid; either
way he would get soaked, but there was little he could do about that. He moved fairly fast for a
large man, but his fastest was not good enough to keep the rain off his face again. If it would
come straight down, the way God meant rain to fall, he thought, fumbling with the key in the lock,
he would be able to see something. He got the door open, flicked on the light switch, and went
back to the car to collect the girl. She was as limp as before, and seemed to weigh nothing at
all. The slicker she wore was hard to grasp, and he did not want her head to loll about, for her
to brain herself on the porch rail or the door frame, but she was not easy to carry, and he
grunted although her weight was insignificant. Finally he got her inside and kicked the door shut
and made his way to the bedroom where he dumped her on the bed. Then he took off his hat that had
been useless, and his glasses that had blinded him with running water, and the streaming raincoat