"William Mark Simmons - Undead 1 - One Foot in the Grave" - читать интересную книгу автора (Simmons William Mark)

features like lengthening shadows on an old sundial. Now I studied his face for new shadings but saw
nothing beyond fresh uncertainty in his eyes.
"You still don't know." Logic followed on the heels of disappointment: "It's not AIDS, then?"
Marsh shook his head. "We know that much."
"So what else do we know?"
"We know you haven't been taking sulfanilamide or any other drugs known to produce
photosensitivity as a side effect," he said. "The blood tests have ruled out eosin, rose bengal,
hematoporphyrin, phylloerythrin, and other known photodynamic substances in your bloodstream. And
I'm pretty damn sure you haven't been ingesting plants with photoreactive pigments like Hypericum,
geeldikkop, and buckwheat."
"Buckwheat?"
"In extreme situations it can cause fagopyrism. But I've never heard of a case in humans and what
you have is nothing like fagopyrism."
I'd grown weary of asking Marsh to stop speaking in tongues. "So what is it like?"
"Porphyria," the woman answered unexpectedly.
"Excuse me?"
Marsh cleared his throat. "I promised you results on the last batch of tests we ran. Well. I guess you
might say the main result is Dr. Mooncloud."
She smiled suddenly and extended a small, brown hand. "Taj Mooncloud, Mr. Csejthe." My
surname came out sounding like a sneeze.
Taj?
"My father was a Native American," she explained as if I'd voiced the question, "my mother, East
Indian."
Interesting. I took her hand across the gurney. "Pleased," I said. "My great-great grandfather was
Rumanian: it's pronounced 'Chey-tay.' "
"Do forgive me."
"No offense taken," I said, patiently two-stepping the dance of etiquette. "You were saying something
about my condition?"
"Ah, yes." The businesslike demeanor was back. "I have an interest in certain types of blood
disorders and I've arranged for most of the major labs to flag my computer when something unusual
comes in for testing. Your blood samples hold a particular interest for me."
"How nice."
"Let's see. Christopher L. Csejthe: Caucasian, male, thirty-two years of age," she read from the
clipboard. "No significant history of disease in either personal or family medical records. Military records
are curiously incomplete. . . ."
Which meant that she had the edited version. And she shouldn't have had even that.
"Marital blood tests registered no anomalies as of nine years ago."
I glanced down at the white band of flesh circling the base of my ring finger. Almost a year, now, and
still refusing to tan. . . .
"Could I have picked something up while I was in the service? Some exotic bug or exposure to
chemical—"
Marsh glanced over Mooncloud's shoulder and shook his head. "That was over a decade ago,
wasn't it? Even such diverse hazards as malaria or sand flies or Agent Orange have warning symptoms
that kick in much sooner."
"How long have you been working in radio?" Mooncloud asked.
It was my turn to shake my head. "If you're wondering about exposure to RF radiation, Doc, it's a
dead end. I didn't start my current profession until this thing—whatever it is—necessitated my taking
night work. Before that I taught English Lit. Eight years. Exposure to radical ideas comes with the
territory but I doubt that's the causative agent here."
Mooncloud consulted the second page on her clipboard: "Patient first complained of sensitivity to