"Robert F. Young - Glimpses" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

People think I am crazy.
This is because I keep telling my tale time and time again. After each telling I am rewarded with
stares of disbelief or stares of pity, and sometimes with outright laughter. But I feel it is my duty to tell it,
to inform the world that the reality we think we live in is a cosmic lie.
But people listen to what I say. They do not believe, but they listen. They listen because part of the
tale is history, because I am truly the astronaut who once set forth in the starship Zeus for Van Maanen's
Star; who brought the starship back to Earth after his fellow astronauts, Scott and Marchen, were killed.
Yes, they listen, and they believe that part, but they do not believe that the starship exceeded the
speed of light, providing me, before the on-board computer self-corrected and brought the ship back
below c, with a glimpse of true reality's naked face. And they do not believe when I tell them what I
saw.
It is the ancient mariner, and he stoppeth one of three. "There was a ship," quoth he.
The ancient mariner is me.

But I am not truly ancient. It is true that I have been retired from the Space Service, but this was not
because of my age; it was because far more time passed on Earth during the Zeus's flight than passed for
me. The true years that went by built up my length of service to pension point, but even if they had not, I
would have been retired anyway because of the injury I suffered when the meteor impact threw the
computer out of whack and killed Scott and Marchen. The injury was to my hip, and despite corrective
surgery I limp slightly when I walk, because my right leg is shorter than my left.
I say "true years." But the many years that passed on Earth were no truer than the few that passed for
me on board the Zeus. Both are products of c. Basically, there is no true time, and since space and time
are indivisible, there can be no true space either.
No doubt there are many people to whom I have told my tale or who have heard it second-hand
who say that the real reason I was retired from the Space Service had to do with my mind rather than my
hip. Conceivably they are right. Nevertheless, although it is possible for a person to be crazy and not
know it, I am certain I am sane.

I am going with this girl in the small town where I live. Her name is Barbara Black, and she is a black
girl. People think this is strange, too, although they never say so, at least not to my face.
You would think that by now racism would have vanished even from the minds of people who live in
small towns. It has not. My parents are outraged. They have an only son who tells tall tales in bars and
coffeehouses, and as though this were not bad enough, he is going with a black girl. I can understand
their attitude, because they are from a much older generation than mine. Indeed, they are much more like
my grandmother and grandfather than my mother and dad. But I cannot understand the attitude of the
younger people in town. It is as though the callous hatred of their ancestors has been handed down to
them in their genes.
Barbara does not seem to mind the virulent looks cast in our direction. She seems to walk above the
paths of ordinary mortals. I feel sometimes that she is as much of an outsider as I am. Before I met her I
would sometimes see her walking down the street, and her eyes would always reach out and touch mine.
One time I saw her looking down at me from the window of her room in the hotel. I often saw her in bars
and coffeehouses, in the background, sitting at a table, all alone. We met by chance one night. I had just
told my tale in a coffeehouse and was going out the door, and she was just coming in. We did not bump
into each other, not quite, but we came close enough to initiate a conversation, and not long afterward we
were walking down the street beneath the stars. Barbara and I.
I have never told her my tale, but I am sure she has heard it second-hand.
I have never told her, either, about the glimpses I have been having since my return to Earth.

I have bought a Mercedes-Benz. Why not? I can afford it. But my parents think it is awful that I
should squander so much money when I am not working. They are afflicted with the Protestant ethic.