"Bradley Denton - Buddy Holly is Alive and Well on Ganymede" - читать интересную книгу автора (Denton Bradley)

feared that in my zeal for insanity-free reception, I had whanged the block converter into electronics
heaven. I was beginning to consider the benefits of spending the money for cable.

I paused again in the kitchen. From here, the Sony's static should have been as loud as hail on the roof,
but I heard nothing. The whole house was quiet...too quiet. So to kill some time, and as long as I was in
the kitchen anyway, I took a bag of microwave popcorn from the cabinet and tossed it into the Sanyo,
which I call the Meltdown Machine because I can feel it trying to cook my eyes if I stand too close.
Once, I tried to heat a Velveeta-on-generic-white using one of Mother's gilt-edged china plates, and the
light show was something to behold.

I waited until the bagged kernels began to pop, and then, with that reassuring noise at my back, I
proceeded into the dining area and through to the living room. The orange afghan was draped over the
Sony, hiding all but one gray corner of the picture tube. The television was silent.

I approached as though the Sony were a dozing wildebeest, and when I was close enough, I snagged
the afghan with the crescent wrench. Then, as the noise from the kitchen became as furious as
machine-gun fire, I jerked the afghan away—

—and once again stared into the face of Buddy Holly.

I walked backward, banged the side of my right knee on a corner of the coffee table, dropped the
wrench, and collapsed into the recliner. I tried to decide whether I should immediately call my
group-therapy leader, Sharon Sharpston, or whether I should wait until a decent hour.

My therapy group, by the way, is for Disturbed Adult Children of Dead Rockers and Hippies. (This is
my own title. Sharon calls us "Post-Traumatic Victims of Popular Culture," or something like that.)
Neither of my parents played in a band, but they both died for love of rock 'n' roll, and I figure that
qualifies me. I have always been disappointed, though, that both Mother and my father C. passed
through their crucial years before they could have tried to qualify as hippies. I would have much preferred
the name "Wheatfield in the Sun" to "Oliver."

Buddy cleared his throat and began to speak, sounding nervous. "Well, folks, don't ask me how I got
here, 'cause it beats the heck out of me. It's only been four or five minutes since I figured out that I ain't
dreamin' again about what a pain old man Sullivan was." He frowned, thinking hard. "Last thing I
remember, the pilot's cussin', and the next thing I know, here I am lookin' at a TV camera. There's a sign
hangin' on it that says 'Welcome to...' "

His voice trailed off, and he pushed up his glasses with one finger against the bridge. "Sorry, it might take
me a minute to get this word. Gan—Ganil—no, that ain't right...."
"Ganymede," I said. I had seen some of the Voyager photos in an Introductory Astronomy course
before dropping out of Kansas State University, and I recognized Jupiter in the sky behind Buddy.
Whenever he tilted his head, the Great Red Spot became visible. "Ganymede, you dumb-ass Texan. And
pardon me for being redundant." I had decided to call Sharon just as soon as the hallucination was over.

"Gaineemeedee," Buddy said, looking proud of himself.

The noises from the kitchen had stopped, so I went to retrieve my bag of popcorn before it scorched. I
figured that the hallucination would wait for me, but when I returned, munching hot popcorn, Buddy was
saying, "...and at the bottom of the sign, there's some smaller print that says, 'For assistance, contact
Oliver Vale, 10146 Southwest 163rd Street, Topeka, Kansas, U.S.A.' So would someone out there