sk.dreamcatcher-第88部分

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re　was　anything　he　should　be　able　to　understand　this　early　morning；　it　was　the　sudden　loss　of　friends。
　　　　The　pills　were　white；　unmarked　by　the　name　of　any　pharmaceutical　pany；　and　terribly　bitter　in　his　mouth　as　they　crumbled。　Even　his　throat　tried　to　pucker　as　he　swallowed。
　　　　The　effect　was　almost　instantaneous。　By　the　time　he　had　tucked　Owen's　USMC　box　into　his　pants　pocket；　Henry's　heartbeat　had　doubled。　By　the　time　he　stepped　back　to　the　window；　it　had　tripled；　His　eyes　seemed　to　pulse　from　their　sockets　with　each　quick　rap　in　his　chest。　This　wasn't　distressing；　however；　he　actually　found　it　quite　pleasant。　No　more　sleepiness；　and　his　aches　seemed　to　have　flown　away。
　　　　'Yow！'　he　called。　'Popeye　should　try　a　few　cans　of　this　shit！'　And　laughed；　both　because　speaking　now　seemed　so　odd　…　archaic；　almost　…　and　because　he　felt　so　fine。
　　　　Keep　it　down；　what　do　you　say？
　　　　Okay！　OKAY！
　　　　Even　his　thoughts　seemed　to　have　acquired　a　new；　crystalline　force；　and　Henry　didn't　think　this　was　just　his　imagination。　Although　the　light　behind　the　old　feed　shed　was　a　little　less　than　in　the　rest　of　the　pound；　it　was　still　strong　enough　for　him　to　see　Owen　wince　and　raise　a　hand　to　the　side　of　his　head；　as　if　someone　had　shouted　directly　into　his　ear。
　　　　Sorry；　he　sent。
　　　　It's　all　right。　It's　just　that　you're　so　strong。　You　must　be　covered　with　that　shit。
　　　　Actually；　I'm　not；　Henry　returned。　A　wink　of　his　dream　came　back　to　him：　the　four　of　them　on　that　grassy　slope。　No；　the　five　of　them；　because　Duddits　had　been　there；　too。
　　　　Henry　…　do　you　remember　where　I　said　I'd　be？　
　　　　Southwest　corner　of　the　pound。　All　the　way　across　from　the　barn；　on　the　diagonal；　But…
　　　　No　buts。　That's　where　I'll　be。　If　you　want　a　ride　out　of　here；　it's　where　you　better　be；　too。　It's　。　。　。　A　pause　as　Owen　checked　his　watch。　If　it　was　still　working；　it　must　be　the　kind　you　wind　up；　Henry　thought。　。　。　。　two　minutes　to　four。　I'll　give　you　half　an　hour；　then　if　the　folks　in　the　barn　haven't　started　to　move；　I'm　going　to　short　the　fence。
　　　　Half　an　hour　may　not　be　long　enough；　Henry　protested。　Although　he　was　standing　still；　looking　out　at　Owen's　form　in　the　blowing　snow；　he　was　breathing　fast；　like　a　man　in　a　race。　His　heart　felt　as　if　it　was　in　a　race。
　　　　It'll　have　to　be；　Owen　sent。　The　fence　is　alarmed。　7here'll　be　sirens。　Even　more　lights。　A　general　alert。　I'll　give　you　five　minutes　after　the　shit　starts　hitting　the　fan　…　that's　a　three　hundred　count　…　and　if　you　haven't　shown　up；　I'm　on　my　merry　way。
　　　　You'll　never　find　Jonesy　without　me
　　　　That　doesn't　mean　I　have　to　stay　here　and　die　with　you；　Henry。　Patient。　As　if　talking　to　a　small　child。　If　you　don't　make　it　to　where　I　am　in　five　minutes；　there'll　be　no　chance　for　either　of　us；　anyway。
　　　　Those　two　men　who　just　mitted　suicide　。　。　。　they're　not　the　only　ones　who　are　fucked　up。
　　　　I　know。
　　　　Henry　caught　a　brief　mental　glimpse　of　a　yellow　school　bus　with　MILLINOCKET　SCHOOL　DEPT。　printed　up　the　side。　Looking　out　the　windows　were　two　score　of　grinning　skulls。　They　were　Owen　Underhill's　mates；　Henry　realized。　The　ones　he'd　arrived　with　yesterday　morning。　Men　who　were　now　either　dying　or　already　dead。
　　　　Never　mind　them；　Owen　replied。　It's　Kurtz's　ground　support　we　have　to　worry　about　now。　Especially　the　Imperial　Valleys。　If　they　exist；　you　better　believe　they'll　follow　orders　and　that　they're　well…trained。　And　training　wins　out　over　confusion　every　time　…　that's　what　training　is　for。　If　you　stick　around；　they'll　roast　you　and　toast　you。　Five　minutes　is　what　you　have　once　the　alarms　go。　A　three　hundred　count。
　　　　Owen's　logic　was　hard　to　like　and　impossible　to　refute。
　　　　All　right；　Henry　said。　Five　minutes。
　　　　You　have　no　business　doing　this　in　the　first　place；　Owen　told　him。　The　thought　came　to　Henry　encrusted　with　a　plex　filigree　of　emotion：　frustration；　guilt；　the　inevitable　fear　…　in　Owen　Underhill's　case；　not　of　dying　but　of　failure。　If　what　you　say　is　true；　everything　depends　on　whether　or　not　we　get　out　of　here　clean。　For　you　to　maybe　put　the　entire　world　at　risk　because　of　a　few　hundred　schmoes　in　a　barn　。　。　。
　　　　It's　not　the　way　your　boss　would　do　it；　right？
　　　　Owen　reacted　with　surprise　…　no　words；　but　a　kind　of　icbook　！　in　Henry's　mind。　Then；　even　over　the　ceaseless　howl　and　hoot　of　the　wind；　he　heard　Owen　laugh。
　　　　You　got　me　there；　beautiful。
　　　　Anyway；　I'll　get　them　moving。　I'm　a　motivational　master。
　　　　I　know　you'll　try。　Henry　couldn't　see　Owen's　face；　but　felt　him　smiling。　Then　Owen　spoke　aloud。　'And　after　that？　Tell　me　again。'
　　　　'Why？'
　　　　'Maybe　because　soldiers　need　motivation；　too；　especially　when　they're　derailing。　And　belay　the　telepathy　…　I　want　you　to　say　it　out　loud。　I　want　to　hear　the　word。'
　　　　Henry　looked　at　the　man　shivering　on　the　other　side　of　the　fence　and　said；　'After　that　we're　going　to　be　heroes。　Not　because　we　want　to；　but　because　there　are　no　other　options。'
　　　　Out　in　the　snow　and　the　wind；　Owen　was　nodding。　Nodding　and　still　smiling。　'Why　not？'　he　said。　'Just　why　the　fuck　not？'
　　　　In　his　mind；　glimmering；　Henry　saw　the　image　of　a　little　boy　with　a　plate　raised　over　his　head。　What　the　man　wanted　was　for　the　little　boy　to　put　the　plate　back　…　that　plate　that　had　haunted　him　so　over　the　years　and　would　forever　stay　broken。


5

Dreamless　since　childhood　and　thus　unsane；　Kurtz　woke　as　he　always　did：　at　one　moment　nowhere；　at　the　next　pletely　awake　and　cognizant　of　his　surroundings。　Alive；　hallelujah；　oh　yes；　still　in　the　big　time。　He　turned　his　head　and　looked　at　the　clock；　but　the　goddam　thing　had　gone　off　again　in　spite　of　its　fancy　anti…magnetic　casing；　flashing　12…12…12；　like　a　stutterer　caught　on　one　word。　He　turned　on　the　lamp　beside　the　bed　and　picked　up　the　pocket　watch　on　the　bedtable。　Four…oh…eight。
　　　　Kurtz　put　it　down　again；　swung　his　bare　feet　out　on　to　the　floor；　and　stood　up。　The　first　thing　he　became　aware　of　was　the　wind；　still　howling　like　a　woe…dog。　The　second　was　that　the　faraway　mutter　of　voices　in　his　head　had　disappeared　entirely。　The　telepathy　was　gone　and　Kurtz　was　glad。　It　had　offended　him　in　an　elemental；　down…deep　way；　as　certain　sexual　practices　offended　him。　The　idea　that　someone　might　be　able　to　e　into　his　very　head；　to　be　able　to　visit　the　upper　levels　of　his　mind　。　。　。　that　had　been　horrible。　The　grayboys　deserved　to　be　wiped　out　for　that　alone；　for　bringing　that　disgustingly　peculiar　gift。　Thank　God　it　had　proved　ephemeral。
　　　　Kurtz　shucked　his　gray　workout　shorts　and　stood　naked　in　front　of　the　mirror　on　the　bedroom　door；　letting　his　eyes　go　up　from　his　feet　（where　the　first　snarls　of　purple　veins　were　beginning　to　show）　to　the　crown　of　his　head；　where　his　graying　hair　stood　up　in　a　sleep…tousle。　He　was　sixty；　but　not　looking　too　bad；　those　busted　veins　on　the　sides　of　his　feet　were　the　worst　of　it。　Had　a　bell　of　a　good　crank　on　him；　too；　although　he　had　never　made　much　use　of　it；　women　were；　for　the　most　part；　vile　creatures　incapable　of　loyalty。　They　drained　a　man。　In　his　secret　unsane　heart；　where　even　his　madness　was　starched　and　pressed　and　fundamentally　not　very　interesting；　Kurtz　believed　all　sex　was　FUBAR。　Even　when　it　was　done　for　procreation；　the　result　was　usually　a　brain…equipped　tumor　not　much　different　from　the　shit…weasels。
　　　　From　the　crown　of　his　head；　Kurtz　let　his　eyes　descend　again；　slowly；　looking　for　the　least　patch　of　red；　the　tiniest　roseola　blush。　There　was　nothing。　He　turned　around；　looked　at　as　much　as　he　could　see　by　craning　back　over　his　shoulder；　and　still　saw　nothing。　He　spread　his　buttocks；　probed　between　them；　slid　a　finger　two　knuckles　deep　into　his　anus；　and　felt　nothing　but　flesh。
　　　　'I'm　clean；'　he　said　in　a　low　voice　as　he　washed　his　hands　briskly　in　the　Winnebago's　little　bathroom。　'Clean　as　a　whistle。'
　　　　He　stepped　into　his　shorts　again；　then　sat　on　his　rack　to　slip　into　his　socks。　Clean；　praise　God；　clean。　A　good　word。　Clean。　The　unpleasant　feel　of　the　telepathy　…　like　sweaty　skin　pressed　against　sweaty　skin　…　was　gone。　He　wasn't　supporting　a　single　strand　of　Ripley；　he　had　even　checked　his　tongue　and　gums。
　　　　So　what　had　awakened　him？　Why　were　there　alarm　bells　clanging　in　his　head？
　　　　Because　telepathy　wasn't　the　only　form　of　extrasensory　perception。　Because　long　before　the　grayboys　knew　there　was　such　a　place　as　Earth　tucked　away　in　this　dusty　and　seldom…visited　carrel　of　the　great　interstellar　library；　there　had　been　a　little　thing　called　instinct；　the　specialty　of　uniform…wearing　Homo　saps　such　as　himself。
　　　　'The　hunch；'　Kurtz　said。　'The　good　old　all…American　hunchola。'　　　　
　　　　He　put　on　his　pants。　Then；　still　bare…chested；　he　picked　up　the　walkie　which　lay　on　the　bedtable　beside　the　pocket　watch　（four…sixteen　now；　and　how　the　time　seemed　to　be　rushing；　like　a　brakeless　car　plunging　down　a　hill　toward　a　busy　intersection）。　The　walkie　was　a　special　digital　job；　encrypted　and　supposedly　unjammable　。　。　。　but　one　look　at　his　supposedly　impervious　digital　clock　made　him　realize　none　of　the　gear　was　un…anything。
　　　　He　clicked　the　SEND/SQUEAL　button　twice。　Freddy　Johnson　came　back　quickly　and　not　sounding　too　sleepy　。　。　。　oh；　but　now　that　crunch　time　was　here；　how　Kurtz　（who　had　been　born　Robert　Coonts；　name；　name；　what's　i