sk.dreamcatcher-第80部分

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resting；　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　in　a　name）　longed　for　Underhill。　Owen；　Owen；　he　thought；　why　did　you　have　to　skid　just　when　I　needed　you　the　most；　son？
　　　　'Boss？'
　　　　'I'm　moving　Imperial　Valley　up　to　six。　That's　Imperial　Valley　at　oh…six…hundred；　e　back　and　acknowledge　me。'
　　　　He　had　to　listen　to　why　it　was　impossible；　crap　Owen　would　not　have　spouted　in　his　weakest　dream。　He　gave　Freddy　roughly　forty　seconds　to　vent　before　saying；　'Close　your　clam；　you　son　of　a　bitch。'
　　　　Shocked　silence　from　Freddy's　end。
　　　　'We've　got　something　brewing　here。　I　don't　know　what；　but　it　woke　me　up　out　of　a　sound　sleep　with　the　alarm　bells　ringing。　Now　I　put　all　you　fellows　and　girls　together　for　a　reason；　and　if　you　expect　to　be　still　drawing　breath　e　suppertime；　you　want　to　get　them　moving。　Tell　Gallagher　she　may　wind　up　on　point。　Acknowledge　me；　Freddy。'
　　　　'Boss；　I　acknowledge。　One　thing　you　should　know　…　we've　had　four　suicides　that　I　know　of　There　may　have　been　more。'
　　　　Kurtz　was　neither　surprised　nor　displeased。　Under　certain　circumstances；　suicide　wasn't　just　acceptable；　but　noble　…　the　true　gentleman's　final　act。
　　　　'From　the　choppers？'
　　　　'Affirmative。'
　　　　'No　Imperial　Valleys。'
　　　　'No；　boss；　no　Valleys。'
　　　　'All　right。　Floor　it；　buck。　We　got　trouble。　I　don't　know　what　it　is；　but　I　know　it's　ing。　Big　thunder。'
　　　　Kurtz　tossed　the　walkie　back　on　the　table　and　continued　dressing。　He　wanted　another　cigarette；　but　they　were　all　gone。


6

A　pretty　good　herd　of　milkers　had　once　been　stabled　in　Old　Man　Gosselin's　barn；　and　while　the　interior　might　not　have　passed　USDA　standards　as　it　now　stood；　the　building　was　still　in　okay　shape。　The　soldiers　had　strung　some　high…wattage　bulbs　that　cast　a　brilliant　glare　over　the　stalls；　the　milking　stations　in　the　parlor；　and　the　upper　and　lower　lofts。　They　had　also　put　in　a　number　of　heaters；　and　the　barn　glowed　with　a　pulsing；　almost　feverish　warmth。　Henry　unzipped　his　coat　as　soon　as　he　stepped　in；　but　still　felt　the　sweat　break　out　on　his　face。　He　supposed　Owen's　pills　had　something　to　do　with　that　…　he'd　taken　another　outside　the　barn。
　　　　His　first　thought　as　he　looked　around　was　how　similar　the　barn　was　to　the　various　refugee　camps　he　had　seen：　Bosnian　Serbs　in　Macedonia；　Haitian　rebels　after　Uncle　Sugar's　Marines　had　landed　in　Port…au…Prince；　the　African　exiles　who　had　left　their　home　countries　because　of　disease；　famine；　civil　war；　or　a　bination　of　all　three。　You　got　used　to　seeing　such　things　on　the　TV　news；　but　the　pictures　always　came　from　far　away；　the　horror　with　which　one　viewed　them　was　almost　clinical。　But　this　wasn't　a　place　you　needed　a　passport　to　visit。　This　was　a　cowbarn　in　New　England。　The　people　packed　into　it　weren't　wearing　rags　and　dirty　dashikis　but　parkas　from　Bean's；　cargo　pants　（so　perfect　for　those　extra　shotgun　shells）　from　Banana　Republic；　underwear　from　Fruit　of　the　Loom。　The　look　was　the　same；　though。　The　only　difference　he　could　discern　was　how　surprised　they　all　still　seemed。　This　wasn't　supposed　to　be　happening　in　the　land　of　Sprint　Nickel　Nights。
　　　　The　internees　pretty　well　covered　the　main　floor；　where　hay　had　been　spread　（jackets　on　top　of　that）。　They　were　sleeping　in　little　clumps　or　family　groups。　There　were　more　of　them　in　the　lofts；　and　three　or　four　to　each　of　the　forty　stalls。　The　room　was　full　of　snores　and　gurgles　and　the　groans　of　people　dreaming　badly。　Somewhere　a　child　was　weeping。　And　there　was　piped…in　Muzak：　to　Henry；　this　was　the　final　bizarre　touch。　Right　now　the　dozing　doomed　in　Old　Man　Gosselin's　barn　were　listening　to　the　Fred　Waring　Orchestra　float　through　a　violin…heavy　version　of　'Some　Enchanted　Evening'。
　　　　Hyped　as　he　was；　everything　stood　out　with　brilliant；　exclamatory　clarity。　All　the　orange　jackets　and　hats！　he　thought。　Man！　It's　Halloween　in　hell！
　　　　There　was　also　a　fair　amount　of　the　red…gold　stuff。　Henry　saw　patches　growing　on　cheeks；　in　ears；　between　fingers；　he　also　saw　patches　growing　on　beams　and　on　the　electrical　cords　of　several　dangling　lights。　The　predominant　smell　in　here　was　hay；　but　Henry　had　no　trouble　picking　up　the　smell　of　sulfur…tinged　ethyl　alcohol　under　it。　As　well　as　the　snores；　there　was　a　lot　of　farting　going　on　…　it　sounded　like　six　or　seven　seriously　untalented　musicians　tootling　away　on　tubas　and　saxophones。　Under　other　circumstances　it　would　have　been　funny。　。　。　or　perhaps　even　in　these；　to　a　person　who　hadn't　seen　that　weasel…thing　wriggling　and　snarling　on　Jonesy's　bloody　bed。
　　　　How　many　of　them　are　incubating　those　things？　Henry　wondered。　The　answer　didn't　matter；　he　supposed；　because　the　weasels　were　ultimately　harmless。　They　might　be　able　to　live　outside　their　hosts　in　this　barn；　but　outside　in　the　storm；　where　the　wind　was　blowing　a　gale　and　the　chill…factor　was　below　zero；　they　wouldn't　have　a　chance。
　　　　He　needed　to　talk　to　these　people
　　　　No；　that　wasn't　right。　What　he　needed　to　do　was　scare　the　living　hell　out　of　them。　Had　to　get　them　moving　in　spite　of　the　warmth　in　here　and　the　cold　outside。　There　had　been　cows　in　here　before；　there　were　cows　here　again。　He　had　to　change　them　back　into　people　scared；　pissed…off　people。　He　could　do　it；　but　not　alone。　And　the　clock　was　ticking；　Owen　Underhill　had　given　him　half　an　hour。　Henry　estimated　that　a　third　of　that　was　already　gone。
　　　　Got　to　have　a　megaphone；　he　thought。　That's　step　one。
　　　　He　looked　around；　spotted　a　burly；　balding　man　sleeping　on　his　side　to　the　left　of　the　door　leading　to　the　milking　parlor；　and　walked　over　to　take　a　closer　look。　He　thought　it　was　one　of　the　guys　he'd　kicked　out　of　the　shed；　but　he　wasn't　sure。　When　it　came　to　hunters；　burly；　balding　men　were　a　dime　a　peck。　
　　　　But　it　was　Charles；　and　the　byrus　was　re…thatching　what　old　Charlie　no　doubt　referred　to　as　his　'solar　sex…panel'。　Who　needs　Rogaine　when　you've　got　this　shit　going　for　you？　Henry　thought；　then　grinned。
　　　　Charles　was　good；　better　yet；　Marsha　was　sleeping　nearby；　holding　hands　with　Darren；　Mr　Bomber…joint…from…Newton。　Byrus　was　now　growing　down　one　of　Marsha's　smooth　cheeks。　Her　husband　was　still　clean；　but　his　brother…in…law　…　Bill；　had　that　been　his　name？　…　was　lousy　with　the　stuff。　Best…in…show；　Henry　thought。
　　　　He　knelt　by　Bill；　took　his　byrus…speckled　hand；　and　spoke　down　into　the　tangled　jungle　of　his　bad　dreams。　Wake　up；　Bill。　Wakey…wakey；　We　have　to　get　out　of　here。　And　if　you　help　me；　we　can。　Wake　up；　Bill。
　　　　Wake　up　and　be　a　hero。


7

It　happened　with　a　speed　that　was　exhilarating。
　　　　Henry　felt　Bill's　mind　rising　toward　his；　floundering　out　of　the　nightmares　that　had　entangled　it；　reaching　for　Henry　the　way　a　drowning　man　will　reach　for　the　lifeguard　who　has　swum　out　to　save　him。　Their　minds　connected　like　couplers　on　a　pair　of　freight…cars。
　　　　Don't　talk；　don't　try　to　talk；　Henry　told　him。　Just　hoId　on。　We　need　Marsha　and　Charles。　The　four　of　us　should　be　enough。
　　　　What…
　　　　No　time；　Billy。　Let's　go。
　　　　Bill　took　his　sister…in…law's　hand。　Marsha's　eyes　flashed　open　at　once；　almost　as　if　she　had　been　waiting　for　this；　and　Henry　felt　all　the　dials　inside　his　head　turn　up　another　notch。　She　wasn't　supporting　as　much　growth　as　Bill；　but　perhaps　had　more　natural　talent。　She　took　Charles's　hand　without　a　single　question。　Henry　had　an　idea　she　had　already　grasped　what　was　going　on　here；　and　what　needed　to　be　done。　Thankfully；　she　also　grasped　the　necessity　of　speed。　They　were　going　to　bomb　these　people；　then　swing　them　like　a　club。　　　　
　　　　Charles　sat　with　a　jerk；　eyes　wide　and　bulging　from　their　fatty　sockets。　He　got　up　as　if　someone　had　goosed　him。　Now　all　four　of　them　were　on　their　feet；　hands　joined　like　participants　in　a　s6xance　。　。　。　which；　Henry　reflected；　this　almost　was。　　　
　　　　Give　it　to　me；　he　told　them；　and　they　did。　The　feeling　was　like　having　a　magic　wand　placed　in　his　hand。
　　　　Listen　to　me；　he　called。
　　　　Heads　rose；　some　people　sat　up　out　of　sound　sleeps　as　if　they　had　been　electrified。
　　　　Listen　to　me　and　boost　me　。　。　。　boost　me　up！　Do　you　understand？　Boost　me　up！　This　is　your　only　chance；　so　BOOST　ME　UP！
　　　　They　did　it　as　instinctively　as　people　whistling　a　tune　or　clapping　to　a　beat。　If　he'd　give