"Roger Zelazny - The Doors of His Face The Lamps of His Mouth" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zelazny Roger)

a video extra or something else--say, some yellowbellied embodiment named
Cringe?

It was when I got him up above the eight-foot horizon of steel and
looked out at all that body, sloping on and on till it dropped out of sight
like a green mountain range...And that head. Small for the body, but still
immense. Fat, craggy, with lidless roulettes that had spun black and red
since before my forefathers decided to try the New Continent. And swaying.

Fresh narco-tanks had been connected. It needed another shot, fast. But
I was paralyzed.

It had made a noise like God playing a Hammond organ...

_And looked at me!_

I don't know if seeing is even the same process in eyes like those. I
doubt it. Maybe I was just a gray blur behind a black rock, with the
plexi-reflected sky hurting its pupils. But it fixed on me. Perhaps the
snake doesn't really paralyze the rabbit, perhaps it's just that rabbits are
cowards by constitution. But it began to struggle and I still couldn't move,
fascinated.

Fascinated by all that power, by those eyes, they found me there
fifteen minutes later, a little broken about the head and shoulders, the
Inject still unpushed.

And I dream about those eyes. I want to face them once more, even if
their finding takes forever. I've got to know if there's something inside me
that sets me apart from a rabbit, from notched plates of reflexes and
instincts that always fall apart in exactly the same way whenever the

proper combination is spun.

Looking down, I noticed that my hand was shaking. Glancing up, I
noticed that no one else was noticing.

I finished my drink and emptied my pipe. It was late and no songbirds
were singing.

I sat whittling, my legs hanging over the aft edge, the chips spinning
down into the furrow of our wake. Three days out. No action.

"You!"

"Me?"

"You."

Hair like the end of the rainbow, eyes like nothing in nature, fine