"Jack Finney - Of Missing Persons" - читать интересную книгу автора (Finney Jack)

But upstairs the Acme office had divorced itself from the atmosphere of the building. I pushed open
the pebble-glass door, walked in, and the big square room was bright and clean, fluorescent-lighted.
Beside the wide double windows, behind a counter, stood a tall gray-haired, grave-looking man, a
telephone at his ear. He glanced up, nodded to beckon me in, and I felt my heart pumping—he fitted the
description exactly. "Yes, United Air Lines," he was saying into the phone. "Flight"—he glanced at a
paper on the glass-topped counter—"seven-oh-three, and I suggest you check in forty minutes early."

Standing before him now, I waited, leaning on the counter, glancing around; he was the man, all right,
and yet this was just an ordinary travel agency: big bright posters on the walls, metal floor racks full of
folders, printed schedules under the glass on the counter. This is just what it looks like and nothing else, I
thought, and again I felt like a fool.

"Can I help you?" Behind the counter the tall gray-haired man was smiling at me, replacing the phone,
and suddenly I was terribly nervous.

"Yes." I stalled for time, unbuttoning my raincoat. Then I looked up at him again and said, "I'd like
to—get away." You fool, that's too fast! I told myself. Don't rush it! I watched in a kind of panic to see
what effect my answer had had, but he didn't flick an eyelash.

"Well, there are a lot of places to go," he said politely. From under the counter he brought out a long,
slim folder and laid it on the glass, turning it right side up for me. "Fly to Buenos Aires—Another World!"
it said in a double row of pale-green letters across the top.

I looked at it long enough to be polite. It showed a big silvery plane banking over a harbor at night, a
moon shining on the water, mountains in the background. Then I just shook my head; I was afraid to talk,
afraid I'd say the wrong thing.

"Something quieter, maybe?" He brought out another folder: thick old tree trunks, rising way up out of
sight, sunbeams slanting down through them—"The Virgin Forests of Maine, via Boston and Maine
Railroad." "Or"—he laid a third folder on the glass—"Bermuda is nice just now." This one said,
"Bermuda, Old World in the New."

I decided to risk it. "No," I said, and shook my head. "What I'm really looking for is a permanent
place. A new place to live and settle down in." I stared directly into his eyes. "For the rest of my life."
Then my nerve failed me, and I tried to think of a way to backtrack.

But he only smiled pleasantly and said, "I don't know why we can't advise you on that." He leaned
forward on the counter, resting on his forearms, hands clasped; he had all the time in the world for me,
his posture conveyed. "What are you looking for; what do you want?"

I held my breath, then said it. "Escape."

"From what?"

"Well—" Now I hesitated; I'd never put it into words before. "From New York, I'd say. And cities in
general. From worry. And fear. And the things I read in my newspapers. From loneliness." And then I
couldn't stop, though I knew I was talking too much, the words spilling out. "From never doing what I
really want to do or having much fun. From selling my days just to stay alive. From life itself—the way it
is today, at least." I looked straight at him and said softly, "From the world."