"Frankowski,.Leo.-.Conrad.Starguard.7.-.Conrad's.Time.Machine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Frankowski Leo)

ride on a military airplane. . . .

Towards sunset, looking up old friends seemed like a good idea,
and my bike made a right turn into Rochester, a strange little town.

The locals claim that the engineer who laid out the street plan was
drunk for eight weeks before he drew the first line, but I knew
better. It takes large groups of people working earnestly together
to do something that stupid.

The arithmetic average of the number of streets coming into an
intersection is probably somewhere around four, but the modal
number is three, with the next most likely number being five and
after that seven. The whole town is like a quilt made by crazy old
ladies out of random polygons. There's even one frightening
crossroads called 'Twelve Points." No shit.

Right downtown, doubtless by accident, there are these two
streets that cross at almost right angles, although one of them
changes its name in the process. This oddity so astounded the
locals that they built this big office structure there and called it "The
Four Corners Building."

I passed it seven times trying to find Hasenpfeffer's address, and
it was pretty late when I finally got there.

I recognized it right off when I saw it. It was exactly the sort of
place he had to live in. It was an ancient clapboard mansion that
had long ago been converted into housing for the perpetually poor
class, students. It was painted barn red and had a yellow external
staircase with fully eleven odd-angle turns in it that led up to the
sixth-floor attic. I didn't have to read the mailboxes to know that
Hasenpfeffer had to live on top. He was home, and—A
Wonderment!—was actually alone, bereft of all female
accompaniment.

"Well, Tom. The parallelism of truly linked souls." Hasenpfeffer
hadn't changed much. The same blue eyes, blond hair, and straight
features. Only now he had a full beard, his hair brushed his
shoulders, and he no longer belonged on a poster advertising the
Hitler Youth Movement. Instead, he was ready to compete in a
Jesus Christ Look-Alike contest.

He was wearing this yellow scholar's robe with a garish collar.

"Huh?" My first comment to him in four years, barring a few letters.

"Your motorcycle. I saw you pull up. I have one just like it, but
without the Ranger faring." He stood up and twirled to show off the
gaudy cadmium yellow circus tent he was wearing. It had two broad