"Zelazny, Roger - Amber 06 - Trumps Of Doom" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zelazny Roger)

positioning myself in a way that no one had taught me, because I do occasionally
have original thoughts.
It was a little slower when it came for me this time. Maybe I could have
gone for the skull and gotten it. I don't know because I didn't try. I seized it
once more by the neck, and this time it was familiar territory. It would not
pull away as it had before in the few moments I needed. Without breaking its
momentum I turned and dropped low and thrust and pulled, adding some guidance to
its trajectory:
It turned in midair, its back striking the window. With a shattering,
splintering sound it passed through, taking most of the frame, the curtain and
the curtain rod along with it.
I heard it hit three stories below. When I rose and looked out I saw it
twitch a few times and grow still, there on the concrete patio where Julia and I
had often had a midnight beer.
I returned to Julia's side and held her hand. I began to realize my anger.
Someone had to be behind this. Could it be S again? Was this my April 30 present
for this year? I'd a feeling that it was and I wanted to do unto S as I had just
done unto the creature that had performed the act. There had to be a reason.
There ought to be a clue.
I rose, went to the bedroom, fetched a blanket, and covered Julia with it.
Mechanically, I wiped my fingerprints from the fallen doorknob as I began my
search of the apartment.
I found them on the mantelpiece between the clock and a stack of paperbacks
dealing with the occult. The moment I touched them and felt their coldness I
realized that this was even more serious than I had thought. They had to be the
thing of mine she'd had that I would be needing--only they were not really mine,
though as I riffled through I recognized them on one level and was puzzled by
them on another. They were cards, Trumps, like yet unlike any I had ever seen
before.
It was not a complete deck. Just a few cards, actually, and strange. I
slipped them into my side pocket quickly when I heard the siren. Time for
solitaire later.
I tore down the stairs and out the back door, encountering no one. Fido
still lay where he had fallen and all the neighborhood dogs were discussing it.
I vaulted fences and trampled flowerbeds, cutting through backyards on my way
over to the side street where I was parked.
Minutes later I was miles away, trying to scrub the bloody paw-prints from
my memory.




Trumps of Doom
Chapter 2
I drove away from the bay until I came to a quiet, well-treed area. I stopped the car and got out and walked.
After a long while I located a small, deserted park. I seated myself on one of the benches, took out the Trumps and studied them. A few seemed half familiar and the rest were totally puzzling. I stared too long at one and seemed to hear a siren song. I put them down. I did not recognize the style. This was extremely awkward.
I was reminded of the story of a world-famous toxicologist who inadvertently ingested a poison for which there was no antidote. The question foremost in his mind was, Had he taken a lethal dose? He looked it up in a classic textbook that he himself had written years before. According to his own book he had had it. He checked another, written by an equally eminent professional. According to that one he had taken only about half the amount necessary to do in someone of his body mass. So he sat down and waited, hoping he'd been wrong.
I felt that way because I am an expert on these things. I thought that I knew the work of everyone who might be capable of producing such items. I picked up one of the cards, which held a peculiar, almost familiar fascination for me--depicting a small grassy point jutting out into a quiet lake, a sliver of something bright, glistening, unidentifiable, off to the right. I exhaled heavily upon it, fogging it for an instant, and struck it with my fingernail. It rang like a glass bell and flickered to life. Shadows swam and pulsed as the scene inched into evening. I passed my hand over it and it grew still once again--back to lake, grasses, daytime.
Very distant. Time's stream flowed faster there in relationship to my present situation. Interesting.
I groped for an old pipe with which I sometimes indulge myself, filled it, lit it, puffed it, and mused. The cards were functional all right, not some clever imitations, and though I did not understand their purpose, that was not my main concern at the moment.