"Jack Williamson - Hole In The World" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williamson Jack)

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Still there, it looked larger. Maybe a floater? But floaters were dark and it
was white. He shut one eye and then the other. Both eyes saw it. Maybe he'd had
a drink too many at Steve's stag party. He tried to whistle on his way
downstairs, but his lips were dry and a dull ache throbbed at the back of his
skull and the house was too empty.

Gretchen had taken most of the furniture as well as the kids, but Amy had left
her school photo tacked to the refrigerator door with a heart-shaped magnet. The
spot blotted out half her freckled grin. He ran hot water out of the tap to make
instant coffee and ate a stale doughnut before he hurried to the office.

Creighton wasn't in.

"He said he'd be here," he told the secretary, "to talk about the franchise -- "

"Ask him about it." She was a straight-spined, sharp-voiced, God-crazed spinster
who had never liked him. "He called from Hawaii to say he'll be in later today."

"Hawaii?" Goggling at her, he saw the spot above her lifted nose. "I thought he
was in Chicago, arranging my new franchise."

"Chicago?" She pushed up her glasses to give him an indignant glare. "Mr.
Creighton has been on vacation in Hawaii. He'll be here this afternoon."

She swung back to her computer.

What the hell? Creighton hadn't mentioned Hawaii. He rubbed his chin and tried
to check his sales totals for the month, but the spot blanked the figures out.
His head was pounding. His throat felt parched. He got a drink of water and
looked at his chin in the lavatory mirror. No longer white, it shone like a
fleck of tinfoil. He washed his face and saw it still there.

Bothered more than ever, he called Dr. Kroman, the eye man on the top floor. He
knew the nurse, a feisty little redhead. She said she could work him in if he
came up at ten. He studied the spot again. Now it was nearly the color of blood
and flickering unsteadily, though still there was nothing he could feel. The
face of his watch was a crimson shimmer, but he could read the office clock. He
went up at ten and the nurse put him in a heavy chair with his head in a vise.

Kroman was a fat, wheezy man who smelled faintly of something that didn't quite
cover an unpleasant breath. Squinting through a battery of lenses, he endured
the breath and a dagger of light stabbing his eyes. The spot made it hard to
tell which lens was better, but Kroman seemed not to care.

"Sir, you're a lucky man!" Booming cheerily, Kroman backed away. "I find nothing

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