JК
The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
Страница: 153 из 164«Stop!» he called, blinded by the noise. Again came the dazzling pattern of the echo:
A distant clatter of steps came to his eyes in soft patterns of vertical borealis streamers:
It was the search party from the Couffre Martel hospital, tracking Foyle and Jisbella McQueen by geophone. The Burning Man disappeared, but not before he had unwittingly decoyed the searchers from the trail of the vanished fugitives.
He was back under Old St. Pat's, reappearing only an instant after his last disappearance. His wild beatings into the unknown sent him stumbling up geodesic space-time lines that inevitably brought him back to the Now he was trying to escape, for in the inverted saddle curve of space-time, his Now was the deepest depression in the curve.
HE WAS ON THE BRAWLING SPANISH
STAIRS. RE WAS ON THE BRAWLING
SPANISH STAIRS. HE WAS ON THE
BRAWLING SPANISH STAIRS. HE WAS
ON THE BRAWLING SPANISH STAIRS.
HE WAS ON TIE BRAWLING SPANISH
STAIRS. HE WAS ON THE BRAWLING
SPANISH STAIRS. HE WAS ON THE
BRAWLING SPANISH STAIRS. HE WAS
ON THE BRAWLING SPANISH STAIRS.
He could drive himself up, up, up the geodesic lines into the past or future, but inevitably he must fall back into his own Now, like a thrown ball hurled up the sloping walls of an infinite pit, to land, hang poised for a moment, and then roll back into the depths.
But still he beat into the unknown in his desperation.
Again he jaunted.
He was on Jervis beach on the Australian coast.
The motion of the surf was bawling: «LOGGERMIST CROTEHAyEN!»
The churning of the surf blinded him with the lights of batteries of footlights:
Gully Foyle and Robin Wednesbury stood before him. The body of a man lay on the sand which felt like vinegar in the Burning Man's mouth. The wind brushing his face tasted like brown paper.
Foyle opened his mouth and exclaimed. The sound came out in burning star-bubbles:
Foyle took a step. «GRASH?» the motion blared.
The Burning Man jaunted.
He was in the office of Dr. Sergei Orel in Shanghai.
Foyle was again before him, speaking light patterns:
He flickered back to the agony of Old St. Pat's and jaunted again.
The Burning Man jaunted.
It was cold again, with the taste of lemons, and vacuum raked his skin with unspeakable talons. He was peering through the porthole of a silvery yawl. The jagged mountains of the Moon towered in the background.
A distant clatter of steps came to his eyes in soft patterns of vertical borealis streamers:
It was the search party from the Couffre Martel hospital, tracking Foyle and Jisbella McQueen by geophone. The Burning Man disappeared, but not before he had unwittingly decoyed the searchers from the trail of the vanished fugitives.
He was back under Old St. Pat's, reappearing only an instant after his last disappearance. His wild beatings into the unknown sent him stumbling up geodesic space-time lines that inevitably brought him back to the Now he was trying to escape, for in the inverted saddle curve of space-time, his Now was the deepest depression in the curve.
HE WAS ON THE BRAWLING SPANISH
STAIRS. RE WAS ON THE BRAWLING
SPANISH STAIRS. HE WAS ON THE
BRAWLING SPANISH STAIRS. HE WAS
ON THE BRAWLING SPANISH STAIRS.
HE WAS ON TIE BRAWLING SPANISH
STAIRS. HE WAS ON THE BRAWLING
SPANISH STAIRS. HE WAS ON THE
BRAWLING SPANISH STAIRS. HE WAS
ON THE BRAWLING SPANISH STAIRS.
He could drive himself up, up, up the geodesic lines into the past or future, but inevitably he must fall back into his own Now, like a thrown ball hurled up the sloping walls of an infinite pit, to land, hang poised for a moment, and then roll back into the depths.
But still he beat into the unknown in his desperation.
Again he jaunted.
He was on Jervis beach on the Australian coast.
The motion of the surf was bawling: «LOGGERMIST CROTEHAyEN!»
The churning of the surf blinded him with the lights of batteries of footlights:
Gully Foyle and Robin Wednesbury stood before him. The body of a man lay on the sand which felt like vinegar in the Burning Man's mouth. The wind brushing his face tasted like brown paper.
Foyle opened his mouth and exclaimed. The sound came out in burning star-bubbles:
Foyle took a step. «GRASH?» the motion blared.
The Burning Man jaunted.
He was in the office of Dr. Sergei Orel in Shanghai.
Foyle was again before him, speaking light patterns:
He flickered back to the agony of Old St. Pat's and jaunted again.
The Burning Man jaunted.
It was cold again, with the taste of lemons, and vacuum raked his skin with unspeakable talons. He was peering through the porthole of a silvery yawl. The jagged mountains of the Moon towered in the background.