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A patch of evening sky showed at the top of the companionway. I went up, leaped out on the open
deck, almost awash in the still sea. I caught a glimpse of two demons standing with raised heads,
listening, while beyond them a third crouched over a fallen crewman. Three steps took me to the rail; I
leaped over it and dived into the dark water.
* * *
I came to shore in a tangle of water hyacinth rooted in the soft mud of a river's edge. For a long time I lay
flat on my face, waiting for the sickness to drain away. There were far-off sounds of life: the rumble of a
monorail, the hoot of a tug out in the harbor. Nearer, a dog barked. Mosquitoes whined insistently.
I turned on my back. Giant stars blazed across a sky like charred velvet. The air was hot, heavy,
oppressive. There was an odor of river muck and decayed vegetation. I got to my feet, staggering a little.
I waded out, washed the mud off me. The bandages were sodden weights; I removed them, splashed
water on the wounds. The left arm worried me; even in the near-total darkness I could see that it was
grossly swollen, the cuts gaping wide. It was not so painful now, though; whatever Doc had given me
was doing its work.
I turned and made my way to higher ground. A sandy road cut across the edge of a planted field before
me, a strip of lesser black against the darkness. I squinted, trying to bring my night-vision into play. For a
moment the scene flicked from black to gray; then pain clamped on my head like a vise. I gave it up.
A light was shining through moss-laden live oaks in the distance. I started off, stumbling in the loose
sand. Once I fell, slammed my face hard. I lay for minutes, spitting sand feebly and trying out some of
Carboni's Sicilian curses. They seemed to help. After a while I got up and went on.
* * *
It was a cabin sided with corrugated aluminum panels, a sagging structure supported mainly by a
towering Tri-D antenna. A gleaming, late-model Mercette ground car stood in the yard. I crept up to it,
glanced in, saw the glint of keys in the starter switch.
The light in the house came from an unshaded glare-lamp on a table by the window. I saw a tall man
cross the room, come back a moment later with a glass in his hand. He seemed to be the only one in the
house.
I studied the lay of the land. The ungrassed yard slanted down to the edge of the road, which ran level
into the darkness. I opened the driver's door carefully, checked the brake, released it. A slight push
started the car rolling backwards. I padded beside it, guiding it for the first few yards; then I slid into the
seat, cut the wheel, rolled out onto the road. I switched on, let out the clutch; I moved off with the engine
purring as softly as a spoon stirring thick cream.
I looked back; the cabin was peaceful. There would be a bad scene when the car was missed, but an
anonymous cashier's check would remedy the pain.
Coffeyville, Kansas, Felix had said. Box 1742, the Franklin Street Postal Station. It was a long drive for
an invalid, and what I would find at the end of it I didn't know but it was something that Felix had
thought important enough to lock in the final strongbox in his subconscious.
I drove slowly for half a mile, then switched on my lights, swung into a paved highway, and headed
north.
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Chapter Nine
I followed secondary roads, skirting towns, driving at a carefully legal speed. At the first light of dawn I
pulled into a run-down motel near the Georgia line with a wan glare sign indicating VAC NCY. From
behind a screened door, an aging woman in a dirty housecoat and curlers blinked eyes like burned-out
coals nested in putty-colored wrinkles.
"Take number six," she whined. "That's ten cees in advance, seein's you got no luggage." A hand like a
croupier's rake poked the key at me, accepted payment.
I pulled the car under the overhang, as nearly out of sight from the road as possible. I crossed a cracked
concrete porch, and stepped into a stifling hot room as slatternly as its owner. In the stale-smelling dark, I
pulled off my coat, found the bath cubicle, splashed cold water on my face at the orange-stained china
sink. I dried myself on a stiff towel the size of a place-mat.
I showered and washed out my clothes, hung them on the curtain rail, and stretched out on the hard
mattress. My fever was still high. I dozed fitfully for a few hours, went through a seizure of chills followed
by violent nausea.
Late in the afternoon I took a second shower, dressed in my stained but dry clothes, and went across
the highway to the Paradise Eat, an adobe-like rectangle of peeling light-blue paint crusted with beer
signs.
A thin girl with hollow eyes stared at me, silently served me leathery pancakes with watered syrup and a
massive mug of boiled coffee, then sat on a stool as far from me as possible and used a toothpick. Her
eyes ran over me like mice. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl aikidobyd.xlx.pl
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
A patch of evening sky showed at the top of the companionway. I went up, leaped out on the open
deck, almost awash in the still sea. I caught a glimpse of two demons standing with raised heads,
listening, while beyond them a third crouched over a fallen crewman. Three steps took me to the rail; I
leaped over it and dived into the dark water.
* * *
I came to shore in a tangle of water hyacinth rooted in the soft mud of a river's edge. For a long time I lay
flat on my face, waiting for the sickness to drain away. There were far-off sounds of life: the rumble of a
monorail, the hoot of a tug out in the harbor. Nearer, a dog barked. Mosquitoes whined insistently.
I turned on my back. Giant stars blazed across a sky like charred velvet. The air was hot, heavy,
oppressive. There was an odor of river muck and decayed vegetation. I got to my feet, staggering a little.
I waded out, washed the mud off me. The bandages were sodden weights; I removed them, splashed
water on the wounds. The left arm worried me; even in the near-total darkness I could see that it was
grossly swollen, the cuts gaping wide. It was not so painful now, though; whatever Doc had given me
was doing its work.
I turned and made my way to higher ground. A sandy road cut across the edge of a planted field before
me, a strip of lesser black against the darkness. I squinted, trying to bring my night-vision into play. For a
moment the scene flicked from black to gray; then pain clamped on my head like a vise. I gave it up.
A light was shining through moss-laden live oaks in the distance. I started off, stumbling in the loose
sand. Once I fell, slammed my face hard. I lay for minutes, spitting sand feebly and trying out some of
Carboni's Sicilian curses. They seemed to help. After a while I got up and went on.
* * *
It was a cabin sided with corrugated aluminum panels, a sagging structure supported mainly by a
towering Tri-D antenna. A gleaming, late-model Mercette ground car stood in the yard. I crept up to it,
glanced in, saw the glint of keys in the starter switch.
The light in the house came from an unshaded glare-lamp on a table by the window. I saw a tall man
cross the room, come back a moment later with a glass in his hand. He seemed to be the only one in the
house.
I studied the lay of the land. The ungrassed yard slanted down to the edge of the road, which ran level
into the darkness. I opened the driver's door carefully, checked the brake, released it. A slight push
started the car rolling backwards. I padded beside it, guiding it for the first few yards; then I slid into the
seat, cut the wheel, rolled out onto the road. I switched on, let out the clutch; I moved off with the engine
purring as softly as a spoon stirring thick cream.
I looked back; the cabin was peaceful. There would be a bad scene when the car was missed, but an
anonymous cashier's check would remedy the pain.
Coffeyville, Kansas, Felix had said. Box 1742, the Franklin Street Postal Station. It was a long drive for
an invalid, and what I would find at the end of it I didn't know but it was something that Felix had
thought important enough to lock in the final strongbox in his subconscious.
I drove slowly for half a mile, then switched on my lights, swung into a paved highway, and headed
north.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
Chapter Nine
I followed secondary roads, skirting towns, driving at a carefully legal speed. At the first light of dawn I
pulled into a run-down motel near the Georgia line with a wan glare sign indicating VAC NCY. From
behind a screened door, an aging woman in a dirty housecoat and curlers blinked eyes like burned-out
coals nested in putty-colored wrinkles.
"Take number six," she whined. "That's ten cees in advance, seein's you got no luggage." A hand like a
croupier's rake poked the key at me, accepted payment.
I pulled the car under the overhang, as nearly out of sight from the road as possible. I crossed a cracked
concrete porch, and stepped into a stifling hot room as slatternly as its owner. In the stale-smelling dark, I
pulled off my coat, found the bath cubicle, splashed cold water on my face at the orange-stained china
sink. I dried myself on a stiff towel the size of a place-mat.
I showered and washed out my clothes, hung them on the curtain rail, and stretched out on the hard
mattress. My fever was still high. I dozed fitfully for a few hours, went through a seizure of chills followed
by violent nausea.
Late in the afternoon I took a second shower, dressed in my stained but dry clothes, and went across
the highway to the Paradise Eat, an adobe-like rectangle of peeling light-blue paint crusted with beer
signs.
A thin girl with hollow eyes stared at me, silently served me leathery pancakes with watered syrup and a
massive mug of boiled coffee, then sat on a stool as far from me as possible and used a toothpick. Her
eyes ran over me like mice. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]