"Robert F. Young - Project Hi-Rise" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

Again those black and burning eyes of his seemed to absorb the Project from its bottommost brick to
its topmost one. There was a purposefulness about his mien that had been lacking on his previous visit; a
fierce, almost an awesome determination that made him seem larger than life. His black eyebrows were
like the wings of a hawk; his lips were set like bitumen. He was wearing a maroon turtleneck with a big N
on the front, blue Levis and thick-soled chukka boots.
He strode toward the gate. The four of us were standing right in his path, and we stepped aside when
he neared us. If we hadn't, he'd have bowled us over.
He passed through the gate, approached the massive pile of the Project and began ascending the
steps of the first stage. Ike and I, coming out of our daze, followed him. Not to try and stop him but to
catch him in case he slipped and fell.
When he reached the apron of the second stage, he strode across it and began ascending the second
series of steps. We kept right on his heels. It was at this point that I noticed he was mumbling something
under his breath. I listened hard, but I couldn't make out what it was.
He surmounted the second stage. The third. Ike and I stayed right behind him. The fourth. The fifth.
We were high now. Looking down over my left shoulder. I could see the dimunitive dwellings of the city
and the minuscule mud huts of the suburbs. Looking down over my right, I could see the Plain, with its
myriad fields of millet and barley and its sparkling irrigation ditches. In the distance the easternmost of the
Twin Rivers gleamed like gold in the morning sun.
Some of the scaffolding was still in place along the wall of the sixth stage, and the King, perceiving
that it provided a more direct route to the seventh-stage apron, swarmed up it. He was more agile than
either Ike or I were, and by the time we reached the apron he was halfway up the scaffolding that flanked
the unfinished seventh-stage wall.
I became aware of the wind. It was blowing steadily up from the south. I could smell the sea in it.
The Project swayed, ever so slightly. But that was all right. The engineers had allowed for the wind. I'd
felt it sway lots of times, and I was no stranger to the wind.
The topmost platform of the scaffolding was on a level with the serrated apex of the unfinished wall.
Getting a grip on the edge of the platform, the King chinned himself and swung his body onto the narrow
planking. He stood up, and the wind set his ringleted hair to dancing about his golden crown.
Ike and I remained on the apron below.
The King shook his fist at the blue and cloudless sky. "I knew all along that fucking Organizer was
working for you!" he shouted. "He never fooled me for a second! But he wasted his time, because I'm
still gonna do what I said I was gonna do, right from here!" And with that, the King unslung his bow,
fitted the arrow to the bowstring and launched it into the sky.
Straight up, it sped, impervious to the wind, seeming to gather momentum with every cubit it traveled.
Ike and I no longer breathed. Everything in all creation except that arrow had ceased to exist for us. In
our eyes it had become a thunderbolt тАФ a thunderbolt cast heavenward by a madman in a magnificent, if
senseless, gesture of defiance.
It neither faltered nor slowed. Any moment now, it seemed, it would pass through the invisible
Gateway and disappear. It was high enough: it had to. But it didn't. For, all of a sudden, a great hand
emerged from the firmament, reached down and seized the tiny shaft. A mighty thumb pressed it between
two mighty fingers. There was a distant snap!, barely audible above the wind. Then the hand withdrew,
and the broken arrow fell back to earth and landed at the King's feet.
He stood there staring down at it.
An aeon went by. There was no sound except the whistling of the wind in the scaffolding. Then a
loud sob reached our ears. Another. We turned away and slowly descended the successive stages to the
ground. We didn't look back тАФ not once. You might think you'd enjoy seeing a king cry, but you
wouldn't. It's like watching a mountain dwindle into an ant hill, a city crumble into dust, a kingdom turn
into trash.

Well, Local 209 pulled out, just like the Company did. We knew there'd be no more jobs on the