"Steven Gould - Jumper 03 - Griffin's Story" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gould Stephen Jay)

could do it, where I could practice.
"We just can't chance it, Griff. You want to do this, this is the only way."
We were living in the United States then, five thousand miles from England, in San Diego,
in a garage flat at the north end of Balboa Park, but when Dad said that, we were a hundred
miles east of the flat. We'd taken the Yuma cutoff, U.S. 98 off of Interstate 8, and it was hot and
winds the road.
I was only nine then, used to not knowing anything, always asking, always pushing. "Then
why do it at all–why should we even take this chance?"
He looked sideways at me and sighed, then back to the road, swerving slightly to avoid a
bouncing tumbleweed the size of a Volkswagen. "It comes down to ... could you do that?
Could you walk away from it? I mean, for me, it would be like spending the rest of my life in a
wheelchair, even though I could still walk. I'd be pretending I could do naught, you know,
making myself do everything the hard way when by just standing up and taking a few steps I
could reach that stuff off the wheelchair ramp, the stuff on the upper shelf."
He sped up a little as we reached a rocky stretch where there wasn't quite so much
blowing sand. "And, dammit, it's a gift! Why the hell shouldn't you be able to do it? Just
because they–" He clamped his mouth shut and looked back at the road.
For once I didn't push it. There were some things my parents just wouldn't talk about, and
what happened back in Oxford was one of them. When I'd first jumped, at five, from the steps
of the Martyr's Memorial in front of a busload of tourists. Well, not then, exactly, but after, the
thing that caused us to leave the UK and keep moving.
Dad began watching the odometer closely, checking the map. He hadn't been there
before–our Empty Quarters were always different. He drove past the road, only recognizing
the turn after we passed because a tangle of tumbleweeds hid the cattle guard that marked it.
We were the only ones on the highway–he just backed up and made the turn, switching the
Range Rover into four–wheel as soon as he was in the loose sand on the other side of the
grate.
"Tell me the rules," he said.
"Go on, Dad!" I knew the rules. I'd known them since I was six.
"So, back to the flat? It's two hours, but I'll do it."
I held up my hand. "All right, all right!" I held up four fingers and ticked them off one by
one. "Never jump where someone can see me. Never jump near home. Never jump to or from
the same place twice. And never, never, ever jump unless I must–or unless you or Mum tell
me to."
"And what does that mean–that you must?”
"If I'm going to get hurt or captured."
"Killed or captured by who?"
"Anyone." Them. That's all I knew. The strangers from Oxford.
"And what does it mean if you break the rules?"
"Have to move. Again."
"Yeah. Again."
We drove for another forty–five minutes, though it was slow going. "This'll have to do. Any
farther and we'll be too close to the border. Don't want to attract the INS." He turned up a dry
wash and went on until we couldn't see the road and the hills of the ravine rose up on both
sides.
It took us ten minutes to climb to the top of the higher ridge, so we could see all around.
Dad used his binoculars, taking forever. Finally he said, "Okay. In the ravine only, right–oh?"
I danced in place. "Now?"
He said, "Now."
I looked down at the Rover, toy–sized, at the bottom of the ravine, and then I was there,