sk.dreamcatcher-第43部分

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movies。　He　had　donned　his　sunglasses　in　spite　of　the　day's　niild　gray　light；　but　Freddy；　his　pilot；　still　only　dared　to　look　at　him　from　the　corners　of　his　eyes。　The　sunglasses　were　wraparounds；　hipster…hodaddy　shades；　and　now　that　they　were　on；　you　couldn't　tell　where　the　boss　was　looking。　You　certainly　couldn't　trust　the　way　his　head　was　pointing。
　　　　The　Derry　News　lay　on　Kurtz's　lap　（MYSTERIOUS　SKYLIGHTS；　MISSING　HUNTERS　SPARK　PANIC　IN　JEFFERSON　TRACT；　read　the　headline）。　Now　he　picked　up　the　paper　and　folded　it　carefully。　He　was　good　at　this；　and　soon　the　Derry　News　would　be　folded　into　what　Owen　Underhill's　career　had　just　bee：　a　cocked　hat。　Underhill　no　doubt　thought　he　would　face　some　sort　of　disciplinary　action　…　Kurtz's　own；　since　this　was　a　black…ops　deal；　at　least　so　far　…　followed　by　a　second　chance。　What　he　didn't　seem　to　realize　（and　that　was　probably　good；　unwarned　usually　meant　unarmed）　was　that　this　had　been　his　second　chance。　Which　was　one　more　than　Kurtz　had　ever　given　anyone　else；　and　one　he　now　regretted。　Bitterly　regretted。　For　Owen　to　go　and　pull　a　trick　like　that　after　their　conversation　in　the　office　of　the　store　after　he　had　been　specifically　warned　。　。　。　　　　
　　　　'Who　gives　the　order？'　Underhill's　voice　crackled　in　Kurtz's　private　link。
　　　　Kurtz　was　surprised　and　a　little　dismayed　by　the　depth　of　his　rage。　Most　of　it　was　caused　by　no　more　than　surprise；　the　simplest　emotion；　the　one　babies　registered　before　any　other。　Owen　had　zinged　him　a　good　one；　putting　the　grayboys　on　the　squad　channel　like　that；　just　wanted　to　hear　if　any　of　it　had　changed　indeed；　that　was　one　you　could　roll　tight　and　stick　up　your　ass。　Owen　was　probably　the　best　second　Kurtz　had　ever　had　in　a　long　and　plicated　career　that　stretched　all　the　way　back　to　Cambodia　in　the　early　seventies；　but　Kurtz　was　going　to　break　him；　just　the　same。　For　the　trick　with　the　radio；　because　Owen　hadn't　learned。　It　wasn't　about　kids　in　Bosanski　Novi；　or　a　bunch　of　babbling　voices　now。　It　wasn't　about　following　orders；　or　even　the　principle　of　the　matter。　It　was　about　the　line。　His　line。　The　Kurtz　Line。
　　　　Also；　there　was　that　sir。
　　　　That　damned　snotty　sir。
　　　　'Boss？'　Owen　sounding　Just　a　tad　nervous　now；　and　he　was　right　to　sound　nervous；　Jesus　love　him。　'Who　gives…'
　　　　'mon　channel；　Freddy；'　Kurtz　said。　'Key　me　in。'
　　　　The　Kiowa；　much　lighter　than　the　gunships；　caught　a　gust　of　wind　and　took　a　giddy　bounce。　Kurtz　and　Freddy　ignored　it。　Freddy　keyed　him　wide。
　　　　'Listen　up；　boys；'　Kurtz　said；　looking　at　the　four　gunships　hanging　in　a　line；　glass　dragonflies　above　the　trees　and　beneath　the　clouds。　Just　ahead　of　them　was　the　swamp　and　the　vast　pearlescent　tilted　dish　with　its　surviving　crew　…　or　whatever　they　were　…　standing　beneath　its　aft　lip。
　　　　'Listen　now；　boys；　Daddy's　gonna　sermonize。　Are　you　listening？　Answer　up。'
　　　　Yes；　yes；　affirmative；　affirm；　roger　that　（with　an　occasional　sir　thrown　in；　but　that　was　all　right；　there　was　a　difference　between　forgetfulness　and　insolence）。
　　　　'I'm　not　a　talker；　boys；　talking's　not　what　I　do；　but　I　want　you　to　know　that　this　is　not　repeat　not　a　case　of　what　you　see　is　what　you　get。　What　you　see　is　about　six　dozen　gray；　apparently　unsexed　humanoids　standing　around　naked　as　a　loving　God　made　them　and　you　say；　some　would　say　anyway；　〃Why；　those　poor　folks；　all　naked　and　unarmed；　not　a　cock　or　a　cunt　to　share　among　em；　pleading　for　mercy　there　by　their　crashed　intergalactic　Trailways；　and　what　kind　of　a　dog；　what　kind　of　a　monster　could　hear　those　pleading　voices　and　go　in　just　the　same？〃　And　I　have　to　tell　you；　boys；　that　I　am　that　dog；　I　am　that　monster；　I　am　that　post…industrial　post…modern　crypto…fascist　politically　incorrect　male　cocka…rocka　warpig；　praise　Jesus；　and　for　anyone　listening　in　I　am　Abraham　Peter　Kurtz；　USAF　Retired；　serial　number　241771699；　and　I　am　leading　this　charge；　I'm　the　Lieutenant　Calley　in　charge　of　this　particular　Alice's　Restaurant　Massacree。'
　　　　He　took　a　deep　breath；　eyes　fixed　on　the　hovering　helicopters。
　　　　'But　fellows；　I'm　here　to　tell　you　that　the　grayboys　have　been　messing　with　us　since　the　late　nineteen…forties；　and　I　have　been　messing　with　them　since　the　late　nineteen…seventies；　and　I　can　tell　you　that　just　because　a　fellow　es　walking　toward　you　with　his　hands　raised　saying　I　surrender；　that　doesn't　mean；　praise　Jesus；　that　he　doesn't　have　a　pint　of　nitroglycerine　shoved　up　his　ass。　Now　the　big　old　smart　goldfish　who　go　swimming　around　in　the　think…tanks；　most　of　those　guys　say　the　grayboys　came　when　we　started　lighting　off　atomic　and　hydrogen　bombs；　that　they　came　to　that　the　way　bugs　e　to　a　buglight。　I　don't　know　about　that；　I　am　not　a　thinker；　I　leave　the　thinking　to　others；　leave　it　to　the　cabbage；　cabbage　got　the　head　on　him；　as　the　saying　goes；　but　there's　nothing　wrong　with　my　eyes；　fellows；　and　I　tell　you　those　grayboy　sons　of　bitches　are　as　harmless　as　a　wolf　in　a　henhouse。　We　have　taken　a　good　many　of　them　over　the　years；　but　not　one　has　lived。　When　they　die；　their　corpses　depose　rapidly　and　turn　into　exactly　the　sort　of　stuff　you　see　down　there；　what　you　lads　call　Plpley　fungus。　Sometimes　they　explode。　Got　that？　They　explode。　The　fungus　they　carry　…　or　maybe　it's　the　fungus　that's　in　charge；　some　of　the　think…tank　goldfish　believe　that　might　be　the　case　…　dies　easily　enough　unless　it　gets　on　a　living　host；　I　say　again　living　host；　and　the　host　it　seems　to　like　the　best；　fellows；　praise　Jesus；　is　good　old　homo　sap。　Once　you've　got　it　so　much　as　under　the　nail　of　your　little　finger；　it's　Katie　bar　the　door　and　Homer　run　for　home。'
　　　　This　was　not　precisely　the　truth　…　not　precisely　anywhere　near　the　truth；　as　a　matter　of　fact　…　but　nobody　fought　for　you　as　ferociously　as　a　scared　soldier。　This　Kurtz　knew　from　experience。
　　　　'Boys；　our　little　gray　buddies　are　telepathic；　and　they　seem　to　pass　this　ability　on　to　us　through　the　air。　We　catch　it　even　when　we　don't　catch　the　fungus；　and　while　you　might　think　a　little　mind…reading　could　be　fun；　the　sort　of　thing　that　would　make　you　the　life　of　the　party；　I　can　tell　you　what　lies　a　little　farther　down　that　road：　schizophrenia；　paranoia；　separation　from　reality；　and　total　I　say　again　TOTAL　FUCKING　INSANITY。　The　think…tank　boys；　God　bless　em；　believe　that　this　telepathy　is　relatively　short…acting　right　now；　but　I　don't　have　to　tell　you　what　could　happen　in　that　regard　if　the　grayboys　are　allowed　to　settle　in　and　be　fortable。　I　want　you　fellows　to　listen　to　what　I'm　going　to　say　now　very　carefully　want　you　to　listen　as　if　your　lives　depended　on　it；　all　right？　When　they　take　us；　boys　…　say　again；　when　they　take　us　…　and　you　all　know　there　have　been　abductions；　most　people　who　claim　to　have　been　abducted　by　aliens　are　lying　through　their　asshole　neurotic　teeth；　but　not　all　…　those　who　are　let　go　have　often　undergone　implants。　Some　are　nothing　but　instruments　…　transmitters；　perhaps；　or　monitors　of　some　sort　…　but　some　are　living　things　which　eat　their　hosts；　grow　fat；　and　then　tear　them　apart。　These　implants　have　been　put　in　place　by　the　very　creatures　you　see　down　there；　milling　around　all　naked　and　innocent。　They　claim　there's　no　infection　among　them　even　though　we　know　they　are　infected　right　up　the　ying…yang　and　the　old　wazoo　and　everywhere　else。　I　have　seen　these　things　at　work　for　twenty…five　years　or　more；　and　I　tell　you　this　is　it；　this　is　the　invasion；　this　is　the　Super　Bowl　of　Super　Bowls；　and　you　fellows　are　on　defense。　They　are　not　helpless　little　ETs；　boys；　waiting　around　for　someone　to　give　them　a　New　England　TEL　phone　card　so　they　can　phone　home；　they　are　a　disease。　They　are　cancer；　praise　Jesus；　and　boys；　we're　one　big　hot　radioactive　shot　of　chemotherapy。　Do　you　hear　me；　boys？'　No　affirmatives　this　time。　No　rogers；　no　I…copy…thats。　Raw　cheers；　nervous　and　neurotic；　jigging　with　eagerness。　The　link　bulged　with　them。
　　　　'Cancer；　boys。　They　are　cancer。　That's　the　best　I　can　put　it；　although　as　you　know；　I'm　no　talker。　Owen；　do　you　copy？'
　　　　'Copy；　boss。'　Flat。　Flat　and　calm；　damn　him。　Well；　let　him　be　cool。　Let　him　be　cool　while　he　still　could。　Owen　Underhill　was　all　finished。　Kurtz　raised　the　paper　hat　and　looked　at　it　admiringly。　Owen　Underhill　was　over。
　　　　'What　is　it　down　there；　Owen？　What　is　it　shuffling　around　that　ship？　What　is　it　forgot　to　put　on　their　pants　and　their　shoes　before　they　left　the　house　this　morning？'
　　　　'Cancer；　boss。'
　　　　'That's　right。　Now　you　give　the　order　and　in　we　go。　Sing　it　out；　Owen。'　And；　with　great　deliberation；　knowing　that　the　men　in　the　gunships　would　be　watching　him　（never　had　he　given　such　a　sermon；　never；　and　not　a　word　of　it　preplanned；　unless　in　his　dreams）；　he　turned　his　own　hat　around　backward。


7

Owen　watched　Tony　Edwards　turn　his　Mets　cap　around　so　that　the　bill　pointed　down　the　nape　of　his　neck；　heard　Bryson　and　Bertinelli　racking　the　。50s；　and　understood　this　was　really　happening。　They　were　going　hot。　He　could　get　in　the　car　and　ride　or　stand　in　the　road　and　get　run　down。　Those　were　the　only　choices　Kurtz　had　left　him。
　　　　And　there　was　something　more；　something　bad　he　remembered　from　long　ago；　when　he　had　been　…　what？　Eight？　Seven？　Maybe　even　younger。　He　had　been　out　on　the　lawn　of　his　house；　the　one　in　Paducah；　his　father　still　at　work；　his　mother　off　somewhere；　probably　at　the　Grace　Baptist；　getting　ready　for　one　of　her　endless　bake　sales　（unlike　Kurtz；　when　Randi　Underhill　said　praise　Jesus；　she　meant　it）；　and　an　ambulance　had　pulled　up　next　door；　at　the　Rapeloews'。　No　siren；　but　lots　of　flashing　lights。　Two　men　in　jumpsuits　very　much　like　the　coverall　Owen　now　wore　had　gone　running　up　the　Rapeloews'　walk；　unfolding　a　gleaming　stretcher。　Never　even　breaking　stride。　It　was　like　a　magic　trick。
　　　　Less　than　ten　minutes　later　they　were　back　out　with　Mrs　Rapeloew　on　the　stretcher。　Her　eyes　had　been　closed。　Mr　Rapeloew　came　along　behind　her；　not　even　bothering　to　close　the　door。　Mr　Rapeloew；　who　was　Owen's　Daddy's　age；　looked　suddenly　as　old　as　a　grampy。　It　was　another　magic　trick。　Mr　Rapeloew　glanced　to　his　right　as　the　men　loaded　his　wife　into　the　ambulance　and　saw　Owen　kneeling　on　his　lawn　in　his　short　pants　and　playing　with　his　ball。　They　say　it　was　a　stroke！　Mr　Rapeloew　called。　St　Mary's　Memorial！　Tell　your　mother；　Owen！　And　the