sk.dreamcatcher-第71部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　him　mind　for　mind；　book　for　book；　idea　for　idea；　only　Jonesy　also　had　the　knack　of　dreaming　outside　the　lines　as　well　as　seeing　the　line。　But　Jonesy　was　gone；　wasn't　he？　Henry　was　quite　sure　of　that。　He　had　been　there；　a　tiny　bit　of　him　had　been　there　when　the　redblack　cloud　passed　Henry；　but　by　now　his　old　friend　would　have　been　eaten　alive。　His　heart　might　still　beat　and　his　eyes　might　still　see；　but　the　essential　Jonesy　was　as　dead　as　Pete　and　the　Beav。
　　　　'Jonesy's　your　problem；　Mr　Underhill。　Gary　Jones；　of　Brookline；　Massachusetts。'
　　　　'Kurtz　is　a　problem；　too。'　Underhill　spoke　too　softly　to　be　heard　over　the　howling　wind；　but　Henry　heard　him；　anyway　…　heard　him　in　his　mind。
　　　　Underhill　looked　around。　Henry　followed　the　shift　of　his　head　and　saw　a　few　men　running　down　the　makeshift　avenue　between　the　campers　and　trailer　boxes　…　no　one　close。　Yet　the　entire　area　around　the　store　and　the　barn　was　mercilessly　bright；　and　even　with　the　wind　he　could　hear　revving　engines；　the　stuttery　roar　of　generators；　and　men　yelling。　Someone　was　giving　orders　through　a　bullhorn。　The　overall　effect　was　eerie；　as　if　the　two　of　them　had　been　trapped　by　the　storm　in　a　place　filled　with　ghosts。　The　running　men　even　looked　like　ghosts　as　they　faded　into　the　dancing　sheets　of　snow。
　　　　'We　can't　talk　here；'　Underhill　said。　'Listen　to　me；　and　don't　make　me　repeat　a　single　word；　buck。'
　　　　And　in　Henry's　head；　where　there　was　now　so　much　input　that　most　of　it　was　tangled　into　an　inprehensible　stew；　a　thought　from　Owen　Underhill's　mind　suddenly　rose　clear　and　plain：　Buck。　His　word。　I　can't　believe　I　used　his　word。
　　　　'I'm　listening；'　Henry　said。


5

The　shed　was　on　the　far　side　of　the　pound；　as　far　from　the　barn　as　it　was　possible　to　get；　and　although　the　outside　was　as　brilliantly　lit　as　the　rest　of　this　hellish　concentration　camp；　the　inside　was　dark　and　smelled　sweetly　of　old　hay。　And　something　else；　something　a　little　more　acrid。
　　　　There　were　four　men　and　a　woman　sitting　with　their　backs　against　the　shed's　far　wall。　They　were　all　dressed　in　orange　hunting　togs；　and　they　were　passing　a　joint。　There　were　only　two　windows　in　the　shed；　one　facing　in　toward　the　corral；　the　other　facing　out　toward　the　perimeter　fence　and　the　woods　beyond。　The　glass　was　dirty；　and　cut　the　merciless　white　glare　of　the　sodium　lights　a　little。　In　the　dimness；　the　faces　of　the　pot…smoking　prisoners　looked　gray；　dead　already。
　　　　'You　want　a　hit？'　the　one　with　the　Joint　asked。　He　spoke　in　a　strained；　miserly　voice；　holding　the　smoke　in；　but　he　held　the　joint　out　willingly　enough。　It　was　a　bomber；　Henry　saw；　big　as　a　panatela。
　　　　'No。　I　want　you　all　to　get　out　of　here。'　They　looked　at　him；　unprehending。　The　woman　was　married　to　the　man　currently　holding　the　joint。　The　guy　on　her　left　was　her　brother…in…law。　The　other　two　were　just　along　for　the　ride。
　　　　'Go　back　to　the　barn；'　Henry　said。　
　　　　'No　way；'　one　of　the　other　men　said。　'Too　crowded　in　there。　We　prefer　to　be　more　exclusive。　And　since　we　were　here　first；　I　suggest　that　if　you　don't　want　to　be　sociable；　you　should　be　the　one　to…'
　　　　'I've　got　it；'　Henry　said。　He　put　a　hand　on　the　tee…shirt　knotted　around　his　leg。　'Byrus。　What　they　call　Ripley。　Some　of　you　may　have　it　。　。　。　I　think　you　do；　Charles…'　He　pointed　at　the　fifth　man；　burly　in　his　parka　and　balding。
　　　　'No！'　Charles　cried；　but　the　others　were　already　scrambling　away　from　him；　the　one　with　the　Cambodian　cigar　（his　name　was　Darren　Chiles　and　he　was　from　Newton；　Massachusetts）　being　careful　to　hold　onto　his　smoke。
　　　　'Yeah；　you　do；'　Henry　said。　'Major　league。　So　do　you；　Mona。　Mona？　No；　Marsha。　It's　Marsha。'
　　　　'I　don't！'　she　said。　She　got　up；　pressing　her　back　against　the　shed　wall　and　looking　at　Henry　with　large；　terrified　eyes。　Doe's　eyes。　Soon　all　the　does　up　here　would　be　dead；　and　Marsha　would　be　dead；　as　well。　Henry　hoped　she　could　not　see　that　thought　in　his　mind。　'I'm　clean；　mister；　we're　all　clean　in　here　except　you！'
　　　　She　looked　at　her　husband；　who　was　not　big；　but　bigger　than　Henry。　They　all　were；　actually。　Not　taller；　maybe；　but　bigger。
　　　　'Throw　him　out；　Dare。'
　　　　'There　are　two　types　of　Ripley；'　Henry　said；　stating　as　fact　what　he　only　believed　but　the　more　he　thought　about　it；　the　more　sense　it　made。　'Call　them　Ripley　Prime　and　Ripley　Secondary。　I'm　pretty　sure　that　if　you　didn't　get　a　hot　dose　…　in　something　you　ate　or　inhaled　or　something　that　went　live　into　an　open　wound　…　you　can　get　better。　You　can　beat　it。'
　　　　Now　they　were　all　looking　at　him　with　those　big　doe　eyes；　and　Henry　felt　a　moment　of　surpassing　despair。　Why　couldn't　he　just　have　had　a　nice　quiet　suicide？
　　　　'I've　got　Ripley　Prime；'　he　said。　He　unknotted　the　tee…shirt。　None　of　them　would　do　more　than　glance　at　the　rip　in　Henry's　snow…powdered　jeans；　but　Henry　took　a　good　big　look　for　all　of　them。　The　wound　made　by　the　turnsignal　stalk　had　now　filled　up　with　byrus。　Some　of　the　strands　were　three　inches　long；　their　tips　wavering　like　kelp　in　a　tidal　current。　He　could　feel　the　roots　of　the　stuff　working　in　steadily；　deeper　and　deeper；　itching　and　foaming　and　fizzing。　Trying　to　think。　That　was　the　worst　of　it　…　it　was　trying　to　think。
　　　　Now　they　were　moving　toward　the　shed　door；　and　Henry　expected　them　to　bolt　as　soon　as　they　caught　a　clear　whiff　of　the　cold　air。　Instead　they　paused。
　　　　'Mister；　can　you　help　us？'　Marsha　asked　in　a　trembling　child's　voice。　Darren；　her　husband；　put　his　arm　around　her。
　　　　'I　don't　know；'　Henry　said。　'Probably　not　。　。　。　but　maybe。　Go　on；　now。　I'll　be　out　of　here　in　half　an　hour；　maybe　less；　but　probably　it's　best　if　you　stay　in　the　barn　with　the　others。'
　　　　'Why？'　asked　Darren　Chiles　from　Newton。
　　　　And　Henry；　who　had　only　a　ghost　of　an　idea　…　nothing　resembling　a　plan　…　said；　'I　don't　know。　I　just　think　it　is。'　They　went　out；　leaving　Henry　in　possession　of　the　shed。


6

Beneath　the　window　facing　the　perimeter　fence　was　an　ancient　bale　of　hay。　Darren　Chiles　had　been　sitting　on　it　when　Henry　came　in　（as　the　one　with　the　dope；　Chiles　had　rated　the　most　fortable　seat）；　and　now　Henry　took　his　place。　He　sat　with　his　hands　on　his　knees；　feeling　immediately　sleepy　in　spite　of　the　voices　tumbling　around　in　his　head　and　the　deep；　spreading　itch　in　his　left　leg　（it　was　starting　in　his　mouth；　as　well；　where　he　had　lost　one　of　his　teeth）。
　　　　He　heard　Underhill　coining　before　Underhill　actually　spoke　from　outside　the　window；　heard　the　approach　of　his　mind。
　　　　'I'm　in　the　lee　of　the　wind　and　mostly　in　the　shadow　of　the　building；'　Underhill　said。　'I'm　having　a　smoke。　If　someone　es　along；　you're　not　in　there。'
　　　　'Okay。'
　　　　'Lie　to　me；　I'll　walk　away　and　you'll　never　in　your　short　life　speak　to　me　again；　out　loud　or　。　。　。　otherwise。'
　　　　'Okay。'
　　　　'How　did　you　get　rid　of　the　people　in　there？'
　　　　'Why？'　Henry　would　have　said　he　was　too　tired　to　be　angry；　but　that　seemed　not　to　be　the　case。　'Was　it　some　kind　of　goddam　test？'
　　　　'Don't　be　a　jerk。'
　　　　'I　told　them　I've　got　Ripley　Prime；　which　is　the　truth。　They　scatted　in　a　hurry。'　Henry　paused。　'You've　got　it　too；　don't　you？'
　　　　'What　makes　you　think　so？'　Henry　could　detect　no　strain　in　Underhill's　voice；　and　as　a　psychiatrist；　he　was　familiar　with　the　signs。　Whatever　else　Underhill　might　be；　Henry　had　an　idea　that　he　was　a　man　with　a　tremendously　cool　head；　and　that　was　a　step　in　the　right　direction。　Also；　he　thought；　it　can't　hurt　if　he　understands　he　really　has　nothing　to　lose。
　　　　'It's　around　your　fingernails；　isn't　it？　And　a　little　in　one　ear。'
　　　　'You'd　wow　em　in　Vegas；　buddy。'　Henry　saw　Underhill's　hand　go　up；　with　a　cigarette　between　the　gloved　fingers。　He　guessed　the　wind　would　end　up　smoking　most　of　that　one。
　　　　You　get　Primary　direct　from　the　source。　I'm　pretty　sure　Secondary　es　from　touching　something　that's　growing　it　…　tree；　moss；　deer；　dog；　another　person。　You　catch　that　kind　like　you　catch　poison　ivy。　This　isn't　anything　your　own　medical　technicians　don't　know。　For　all　I　can　tell；　I　got　the　information　from　them。　My　head's　like　a　goddam　satellite　dish　with　everything　beaming　in　on　Free　Preview　and　nothing　blocked　out。　I　can't　tell　where　half　of'　this　stuff's　ing　from　and　it　doesn't　matter。　Now　here's　some　stuff　your　med…techs　don't　know。　The　grays　call　the　red　growth　byrus；　a　word　that　means　'the　stuff　of　life'。　Under　some　circumstances；　the　Prime　version　of　it　can　grow　the　implants。'
　　　　'The　shit…weasels；　you　mean。'
　　　　'Shit…weasels；　that's　good。　I　like　that。　They　spring　from　the　byrus；　then　reproduce　by　laying　eggs。　They　spread；　lay　more　eggs；　spread　again。　That's　the　way　it's　supposed　to　work；　anyway。　Here；　most　of　the　eggs　go　dead。　I　have　no　idea　if　it's　the　cold　weather；　the　atmosphere；　or　something　else。　But　in　our　environment；　Underhill；　it's　all　about　the　byrus。　It's　all　they've　got　that　works。'
　　　　'The　stuff　of　life。'
　　　　'Uh…huh；　but　listen：　the　grays　are　having　big　problems　here；　which　is　probably　why　they　hung　around　so　long　…　half　a　century　…　before　making　their　move。　The　weasels；　for　instance。　They're　supposed　to　be　saprophytes　。　。　。　do　you　know　what　that　means？'
　　　　'Henry　。　。　。　that's　you；　right？　Henry？　。　。　。　Henry；　does　this　have　any　bearing　on　our　present…'
　　　　It　has　plenty　of　bearing　on　our　present　situation。　And　unless　you　want　to　own　a　large　part　of　the　responsibility　for　the　end　of　all　life　on　Spaceship　Earth　…　except　for　a　lot　of　interstellar　kudzu；　that　is　…　I　advise　you　to　shut　up　and　listen。'
　　　　A　pause。　Then：　'I'm　listening。'
　　　　'Saprophytes　are　beneficial　parasites。　We　have　them　living　in　our　guts；　and　we　deliberately　swallow　more　in　some　dairy　products。　Sweet　acidophilus　milk；　for　instance；　and　yogurt。　We　give　the　bugs　a　place　to　live　and　they　give　us　something　in　return。　In　the　case　of　dairy　bacteria；　improved　digestion。　The　weasels；　under　normal　circumstances　…　normal　on　some　other　world；　I　guess；　where　the　ecology　differs　in　ways　I　can't　even　guess　at　…　grow　to　a　size　maybe　no　bigger　than　the　bowl　of　a　teaspoon。　I　think　that　in　females　they　may　interfere　with　reproduction；　but　they　don't　kill。　Not　normally。　They　just　live　in　the　bowel。　We　give　them　food；　they　give　us　telepathy。　That's　supposed　to　be　the　trade。　Only　they　also　turn　us　into　televisions。　We　are　Grayboy　TV。'
　　　　'And　you　know　all