"Jack Williamson - Star Bright" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williamson Jack)

"My fishing tackle?"
In twenty-two years, Mr. Peabody had actually found the time and money to make no more
than three fishing trips. He still considered himself, however, an ardent angler. Sometimes he
had gone without his lunches, for weeks, to save for some rod or reel or special fly. He often
spent an hour in the back yard, casting at a mark on the ground.
Trying to glare at William, he demanded hoarsely:
"What about my fishing tackle?"
"Now, Jason," interrupted the soothing voice of Mrs. Peabody, "don't get yourself all wrough
up. You know you haven't used your old fishing tackle in the last ten years."
Stiffly erect, Mr. Peabody strode toward his taller son.
"William, what have you done with it?"
William was filling his pipe again.
 "Keep your shirt on, Gov," he advised. "Mom said it would be all right. And I had to have the
dough to make the first payment on the bus. Now don't bust an artery. I'll give you the pawn
tickets."
"Bill!" Beth's voice was sharp with reproof. "You didn'tтАФ" Mr. Peabody, himself, made a
gasping incoherent sound. He started blindly toward the front door.
"Now, Jason!" Ella's voice was silver with a sweet and unendurable reason. "Control yourself
Jason. You haven't had your dinnerтАФ"
He slammed the door violently behind him.

This was not the first time in twenty-two years that Mr. Peabody had fled to the windy
freedom of Bannister Hill. It was not even the first time he had spoken a wish to a star. While he
had no serious faith in that superstition of his childhood, he still felt that it was a very pleasan
idea.
An instant after the words were uttered, he saw the shooting star. A tiny point of light, drifting
a little upward through the purple dusk. It was not white, like most falling stars, but palely green.
It recalled another old belief, akin to the first. If you saw a falling star, and if you could make
a wish before the star went out, the wish would come true. Eagerly, he caught his breath.
"I wish," he repeated, "I could do miracles!"
He finished the words in time. The star was still shining. Suddenly, in fact, he noticed that its
greenish radiance was growing brighter.
Far brighter! And exploding!
Abruptly, then, Mr. Peabody's vague and wistful satisfaction changed to stark panic. He
realized that one fragment of the green meteor, like some celestial bullet, was coming straight a
him! He made a frantic effort to duck, to shield his face with his hand.
Mr. Peabody woke, lying on his back on the grassy hill. He groaned and lifted his head. The
waning moon had risen. Its slanting rays shimmered from the dew on the grass.
Mr. Peabody felt stiff and chilled. His clothing was wet with the dew. And something was
wrong with his head. Deep at the base of his brain, there was a queer dull ache. It was no
intense, but it had a slow, unpleasant pulsation.
His forehead felt oddly stiff and drawn. His fingers found a streak of dried blood, and then the
ragged, painful edge of a small wound.
"Golly!"
With that little gasping cry, he clapped his hand to the hack of his head. But there was no
blood in his hair. That small leaden ache seemed close beneath his hand, but there was no other
surface wound.
"Great golly!" whispered Mr. Peabody. "It has lodged in my brain!"
The evidence was clear enough. He had seen the meteor hurtling straight at him. There was a
tiny hole in his forehead, where it must have entered. There was none where it could have