"Rajnar Vajra - His Hands Pass Like Clouds" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vajra Rajnar)

What most grabbed my eye, however, were the dark spaces _between_ the
clouds; in daylight, they wouldn't have been so prominent. Many didn't match
the real sky at all. These particular shapes were unfamiliar -- or maybe I'd
seen them in Joe's paintings before and they hadn't quite registered. Each
shape had the purposeful and simple design usually associated with written
letters or numbers. One looked like a "v" with a cloverleaf blob in the
middle. As a graphic artist, I know a _character_ when I see one. But if these
were letters, I wondered, what was the language?
"Have you left some of your pain ... behind, Gregory?"
For an instant, Joe canted his head and the moonlight glinted slyly off
his cataracts. The tiny stress he'd put on the word "behind" put the crowning
touch of weirdness on the evening. I was sure the emphasis had been
deliberate, as if the Cloudman had somehow known about the problems I'd had
with the toothbrush commercial.
"Joe," I began, but then wasn't sure what to ask or how to ask it.
"Your legs? Better or no?"
"My God! I hadn't noticed ... this is _incredible_ ... the pain is
gone! I mean _completely_! I don't remember my hand changing so -- "
"You are an adult now and an adult whose heart remains open can hear
much more than a child."
"Hear? What do you mean? Hear _what_, exactly? How is this _possible_?"
"There are some things, young Gregory, that an old fool should not hope
to _explain_."
I couldn't get him to say anything more on the subject and I felt too
pleased and confused to keep trying. After a long stretch of companionable
silence, I said goodnight, promised to return soon, and headed for home. On
the way, I tried to glimpse Pegasus through the glaze of the streetlight, but
couldn't. My legs felt wonderful. The old punch line, "it feels so good when
it stops," kept going through my head.
****
I have learned, by trying everything else, that I function best by getting up
at the same time every morning no matter how late I go to sleep.
Which didn't make it any easier to force my body out of bed when the
alarm sounded. And last night, I'd evidently forgotten to push the timer
button on my automatic coffee maker. Only a fellow addict will understand what




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a blow _that_ was.
Cursing myself, I switched on the Krups, flopped on the couch, flipped
on the TV, and stared at the flatscreen in a caffeine-deprived stupor. The
channel was set to one of those morning shows where they rarely scratch more
than the gloss on the surface of an interesting story. Truthfully, I was
paying more attention to the happy squeals and grunts of my magic elixir
brewing ... until the report about "Team Champ" came on.
Since spring, a team of cryptozoologists had been working up near
Burlington, Vermont, doing research in Lake Champlain. The team had the latest
multi-source sonar equipment, two mini-subs, and one dubious goal: to finally