"Burstein, Michael A - Cosmic Corkscrew" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burstein Michael A)

perfectly, making the change before Scheihagen sent me back, but not early
enough in the launch sequence for him to notice.
Why did I do this? Because, despite Scheihagen's warnings, I wanted to
make contact with the subject. When he was alive, whenever I had met him,
I had always been a fan; by the time I had made a name for myself in his
field, he was long gone. I wanted to meet him right at the start of his
career, and as far as I was concerned, that beginning was right after he
finished writing his first story.
I looked back at the Chronobox, then checked my clothing and patted my
pockets. I was dressed in a jacket, tie, and overcoat, perfect to blend in
with the natives of this era. In my pockets I had my scanner and my
disorienter. The scanner was vital to my mission; the disorienter was for
repairing the past in case I made a mistake. Feeling confident, I turned
around the corner and walked to my destination: the candy store at 174
Windsor Place in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn.
I had memorized the route in the future, and here in the past I found
my way quite easily. The candy store stood in the middle of the block. A
newspaper rack sat outside, with the day's papers and more popular
magazines of the era prominently displayed. I pushed the door open and
went in.
The details of this store were important to me, and I wanted to take in
everything I saw as perfectly as possible, so I could remember it once I
had left. The first thing I noticed was that the store was broader than it
was deep. To the left, near the wall, I saw a cigar counter and a cash
register. Behind the register were vertical slots against the walls,
crammed with cigarette packets. At right angles to the cigar counter was a
candy counter, with three rows of penny candies (penny!) and one row of
nickel candies. The sweet smell of the cigars wafted through the store,
permeating it with a pleasant, musty odor.
On the right side of the store was a soda fountain, and right along
with it a refrigerator, containers of syrup, electric stirrers, faucets
for carbonated water, and a sink. Four stools sat below it, currently
empty. I was the only customer in the store.
On the right wall was a magazine stand. Next to it, a rotary telephone,
and a table with four chairs. And then, coming around to the right side of
the door, an ice container.
And back behind the cigarette counter stood a young man, only 18 years
old, wearing glasses and showing an impossible grin. He looked at me, and
with an unmistakable Brooklyn accent, said, "May I help you?"
I was in the right place, the right time. Standing behind the counter
was the young Isaac Asimov.



I told him I was just looking, which seemed to strike him as odd; I
guess most people in this era came into a candy store intent on one or two
particular items. But he seemed to relax when I headed to the magazine
stand and began studying the titles.
I had to take a few deep breaths just to calm myself down. Part of me
was worried that at any moment, Scheihagen might appear to drag me back to