JК
The Stars My Destination ( Tiger! Tiger! ) :: Bester Alfred
Страница: 154 из 164Through the porthole he could see the jangling racket of blood pumps and oxygen pumps and hear the uproar of the motion Gully Foyle made toward him. The clawing of the vacuum caught his throat in an agonizing grip.
The geodesic lines of space-time rolled him back to Now under Old St. Pat's, where less than two seconds had elapsed since he first began his frenzied struggle. Once more, like a burning spear, he hurled himself into the unknown.
He was in the Skoptsy Catacomb on Mars. The white slug that was Lindsey Joyce was writhing before him.
«NO! NO! NO!» her motion screamed. «DON'T HURT ME. DON'T KILL ME. NO PLEASE. . . PLEASE. . .»
The Burning Man opened his tiger mouth and laughed. «She hurts,» he said. The sound of his voice burned his eyes.
«Who are you?» Foyle whispered.
The Burning Man winced. «Too bright,» he said. «Less light.» Foyle took a step forward. «BLAA-GAA-DAA-MAWW!» the motion roared.
The Burning Man clapped his hands over his ears in agony. «Too loud,» he cried. «Don't move so loud.»
The writhing Skoptsy's motion was still screaming, beseeching: «DON'T HURT ME. DON'T HURT ME.»
The Burning Man laughed again. She was mute to normal men, but to his freak-crossed senses her meaning was clear. «Listen to her. She's screaming. Begging. She doesn't want to die. She doesn't want to be hurt. Listen to her.»
«IT WAS OLIVIA PRESTEIGN GAVE THE ORDER. OLIVIA PRESTEIGN. NOT ME. DON'T HURT ME. OLIVIA PRESTEIGN.»
«She's telling who gave the order. Can't you hear? Listen with your eyes. She says Olivia.»
WHAT?WHAT'?WHAT?
WHAT?WHAT?WHAT?
WHAT?WHAT?WHAT?
WHAT?WHAT?WHAT?
WHAT?WHAT?WHAT?
The checkerboard glitter of Foyle's question was too much for him. The Burning Man interpreted the Skoptsy's agony again.
«She says Olivia. Olivia Presteign. Olivia Presteign. Olivia Presteign.»
He jaunted.
He fell back into the pit under Old St. Pat's, and suddenly his confusion and despair told him he was dead. This was the finish of Gully Foyle. This was eternity, and hell was real. What he had seen was the past passing before his crumbling senses in the final moment of death. What he was enduring he must endure through all time. He was dead. He knew he was dead.
He refused to submit to eternity.
He beat again into the unknown.
The Burning Man jaunted.
He was in a scintillating mist a snowflake cluster of stars a shower of liquid
diamonds. There was the touch of butterfly wings on his skin.
The geodesic lines of space-time rolled him back to Now under Old St. Pat's, where less than two seconds had elapsed since he first began his frenzied struggle. Once more, like a burning spear, he hurled himself into the unknown.
He was in the Skoptsy Catacomb on Mars. The white slug that was Lindsey Joyce was writhing before him.
«NO! NO! NO!» her motion screamed. «DON'T HURT ME. DON'T KILL ME. NO PLEASE. . . PLEASE. . .»
The Burning Man opened his tiger mouth and laughed. «She hurts,» he said. The sound of his voice burned his eyes.
«Who are you?» Foyle whispered.
The Burning Man winced. «Too bright,» he said. «Less light.» Foyle took a step forward. «BLAA-GAA-DAA-MAWW!» the motion roared.
The Burning Man clapped his hands over his ears in agony. «Too loud,» he cried. «Don't move so loud.»
The writhing Skoptsy's motion was still screaming, beseeching: «DON'T HURT ME. DON'T HURT ME.»
The Burning Man laughed again. She was mute to normal men, but to his freak-crossed senses her meaning was clear. «Listen to her. She's screaming. Begging. She doesn't want to die. She doesn't want to be hurt. Listen to her.»
«IT WAS OLIVIA PRESTEIGN GAVE THE ORDER. OLIVIA PRESTEIGN. NOT ME. DON'T HURT ME. OLIVIA PRESTEIGN.»
«She's telling who gave the order. Can't you hear? Listen with your eyes. She says Olivia.»
WHAT?WHAT'?WHAT?
WHAT?WHAT?WHAT?
WHAT?WHAT?WHAT?
WHAT?WHAT?WHAT?
WHAT?WHAT?WHAT?
The checkerboard glitter of Foyle's question was too much for him. The Burning Man interpreted the Skoptsy's agony again.
«She says Olivia. Olivia Presteign. Olivia Presteign. Olivia Presteign.»
He jaunted.
He fell back into the pit under Old St. Pat's, and suddenly his confusion and despair told him he was dead. This was the finish of Gully Foyle. This was eternity, and hell was real. What he had seen was the past passing before his crumbling senses in the final moment of death. What he was enduring he must endure through all time. He was dead. He knew he was dead.
He refused to submit to eternity.
He beat again into the unknown.
The Burning Man jaunted.
He was in a scintillating mist a snowflake cluster of stars a shower of liquid
diamonds. There was the touch of butterfly wings on his skin.