"Dan Simmons - 2 Minutes 45 Seconds" - читать интересную книгу автора (Simmons Dan)

It's a compact and chilling tale about guilt, based in part on a very well-publicized
event in our re-cent past—the Challenger disaster.

Excuse me, I have to go now. The phone's ringing, there's a process-server at the
door, and a corporate helicopter has just landed in the back yard.
***
Roger Colvin closed his eyes and the steel bar clamped down across his lap and
they began the steep climb. He could hear the rattle of the heavy chain and the creek
of steel wheels on steel rails as they clanked up the first hill of the rollercoaster.
Someone behind him laughed ner-vously. Terrified of heights, heart pounding
painfully against his ribs, Colvin peeked out from between spread fingers.
The metal rails and white wooden frame rose steeply ahead of him. Colvin was in the
first car. He lowered both hands and tightly gripped the metal restraining bar, feeling
the dried sweat of past palms there. Someone giggled in the car behind him. He
turned his head only far enough to peer over the side of the rails.
They were very high and still rising. The midway and parking lots grew smaller,
individuals growing too tiny to be seen and the crowds becoming mere carpets of
color, fading into a larger mosaic of geometries of streets and lights as the entire city
became visible, then the entire county. They clanked higher. The sky darkened to a
deeper blue. Colvin could see the curve of the earth in the haze-blued distance. He
realized that they were far out over the edge of a lake now as he caught the glimmer
of light on wavetops miles below through the wooden ties. Colvin closed his eyes as
they briefly passed through the cold breath of a cloud, then snapped them open
again as the pitch of chain rumble changed, as the steep gradient less-ened, as they
reached the top.
And went over.
There was nothing beyond. The two rails curved out and down and ended in air.
Colvin gripped the restraining bar as the car pitched forward and over. He opened
his mouth to scream. The fall began.
"Hey, the worst part's over." Colvin opened his eyes to see Bill Montgomery
handing him a drink. The sound of the Gulfstream's jet engines was a dull rumble
under the gentle hissing of air from the overhead ventilator nozzle. Colvin took the
drink, turned down the flow of air, and glanced out the window. Logan International
was already out of sight behind them and Colvin could make out Nantasket Beach
below, a score of small white triangles of sail in the expanse of bay and ocean
beyond. They were still climbing.
"Damn, we're glad you decided to come with us this time, Roger," Montgomery said
to Colvin. "It's good hav-ing the whole team together again. Like the old days."
Montgomery smiled. The three other men in the cabin raised their glasses.
Colvin played with the calculator in his lap and sipped his vodka. He took a breath
and closed his eyes.
Afraid of heights. Always afraid. Six years old and in the barn, tumbling from the
loft, the fall seemingly end-less, time stretching out, the sharp tines of the pitchfork
rising toward him. Landing, wind knocked out of him, cheek and right eye against
the straw, three inches from the steel points of the pitchfork.
"The company's ready to see better days," said Larry Miller. "Two and a half years
of bad press is enough. Be good to see the launch tomorrow. Get things started
again."
"Here, here," said Tom Weiscott. It was not yet noon but Tom had already had too
much to drink.