GARY BRANDNER

Low, black clouds erased the stars from the sky above Maine. The logs of the old farmhouse creaked. In the house itself, Matthew Crichton lay under a sheet of wet sweat and cursed at a mosquito, singing in the dark above his very nose.

On a bedside table, a single piece of paper quivered under the hot breath of a breeze breaking through a window covered with a grid. The words leaped from the page and danced a mocking jig between Crichton's nose and the mosquito.

“Dear Matt (at least they did not switch from last name to last name. The only positive point in the whole damn letter)!

Thank you for sending the Vampire Moon. I must note, the story does not reach the required level. I'm not saying that the horror genre has died, but it is evolving (and what should this mean?). Your vampire is another clone of Dracula, a technique that pretty much annoyed everyone back in the seventies. I need something more modern from you (you need one thing: to get a good blow at you). More vital, as you know, I like to talk (he did not know). And the women in your story from the distant past. Today we are not victims. The current women are strong, initiative, smart (therefore, from you only trouble). We never whine, never cry. We make decisions. If you want to offer the "Moon" to another agent, good luck to you. If you write something original, I will look with pleasure (you have already looked).

Best wishes, Leon.

Sweet, kindly Leon Zeltser, an agent with whom he has worked for the past twelve years, gives him a kick, like some newcomer who imagines himself a writer after a summer seminar. Worse. He believes that it is written up and is no longer able to keep pace with the market, can not offer anything worthwhile to its court.

In the distance, thundered. Crichton pointed his finger at the window: “Blow the winds, blow your cheeks! Let the storm come! Not for me to be afraid of her. My mood is a match for the weather! ”

He threw a nasty letter from his memory, focused on the books he wrote: “Trail in the canyon”, “Attack on the Red Beach”, “Death in the Morning”, “Megablaster”, “Burning Planet”, two dozen others. Westerns, war novels, detectives, technotrillers, science fiction. Even a female novel, something there with passion, he could not remember the name. Two shelves of books in the cover, published under a dozen of pseudonyms in a dozen of publishing houses. But none over the past four years. And now he cannot push a vile vampire story through his agent.

Creighton turned over on his stomach, buried his face in a pillow that was wet with sweat. Can he strangle himself?

Lightning struck in the eyes, even through the pillow. Lightning? No, the storm raged over Mount Boerston. The light dimmed. But the room was filled with an unpleasant crackle.

Crichton sat up, blinked. Outside the window a white-blue glow pulsed. The crackle turned into a steady, menacing buzz.

Car accident? No, the freeway is a mile away, and a narrow road passes on the other side of the house. Neighbors uchudili something? Not. McNaute’s farm is three miles away.

Matthew Crichton was distinguished by a logical mindset, he did not recognize anything fantastic in real life, but in this case fantasy prevailed over logic: UFOs. They always landed in such almost deserted places. And, according to the tabloids, the witnesses were unable to connect two words, whose name was none other than Billy Bob, to become witnesses of their landings. Maybe this time the space aliens deliberately chose a contactee who could write words into sentences?

He got out of bed, put a sweater on over his pajamas, put his feet in slippers from K-March, took a lantern from the shelf of the night table and went out into the stifling darkness.

The source of light and buzz is located behind a rare aspen line at the very border of its site.Through the tilled field, Crichton headed for the trees. The breeze began to shake the trousers of his pajamas. The skin ran goosebumps.

Nerves vibrated in anticipation of future changes. For so many years, he barely kept afloat, but now he has already seen how he gets on an express train heading to the Land of Success. Stealthily, he went to the far edge of the line. The express brakes gritted, The country of success melted away like a mirage, it remained in the City of losers.

“Shit,” burst from his lips.

One of the high-voltage wires, usually tight between the supports, is slack. Touching the metal of the pedestal, he kicked out bright white-blue sparks. The prop buzzed like a thousand angry bees. Eyes began to smell from the smell of ozone, and my head suddenly went round.

Creighton took himself in hand, walked on the ground with a flashlight beam. Discovered a pad of freshly burnt grass. In the center of the site lay the subject, possibly the cause of problems in the high-voltage line: a balloon gleaming with silver metal. Pink ribbons were attached to it. The surface was girdled with the inscription: “Happy Birthday, Varna !!!”

“Shit,” repeated Crichton. - Would you go to hell, Varna.

At his words, the metal prop groaned, the automatic mechanism pulled the wire, the sparks disappeared, the buzz stopped. Crichton raised the ball, turned it over in his hands. "You can not throw such balls around," he thought, squeezing his fingers hard, plastic-coated with a metal film. “It’s good that everything was okay,” Criting up the tape, Crichton headed home through the woods and field. Ball jumped after him.

He lay down in bed, looked at the ball for a long time, trembling from the breeze on the bedside table. Why is this not a UFO? He could sell tickets. “Aliens in a cage. Ticket for adults - $ 20. For children - 10 ". And related products. The same t-shirts would go for twenty bucks. “Take pictures with an alien!” Lord, he would have found a hundred ways to make money from them. And what you take with a short circuit and a gift ball?

Towards dawn, Crichton forgot an anxious dream, but literally a few minutes later he opened his eyes sharply, sat down.

- Damn it!

He got out of bed, slapped to a typewriter, put a blank sheet in the carriage. An hour later, interrupted to make a phone call.

* * *

- Lord, Matt, still deep night.

“It's six in the morning.”

- Exactly. This is not the time to talk about lousy fiction.

- Leon, will you listen to me or not? What fiction? This happened. With me. This night. I did not close my eyes.

- Wait wait. It means so. Flying saucer dropped in your yard, little green men brought you aboard to participate in the abominable sexual experiments. Have I not already read this?

- Damn it, Leon, will you listen to me or not? There was no plate, the aliens are not green at all, but what happened to me can be called anything but not disgusting.

- Are you drinking again?

- I'm sober as glass.

The agent's voice began to break free from sleepy irritation.

“You really think something might burn out of it.” “Leon, did Shirley MacLainch get burned out with stories about her past lives?”

- Mmmmm

- What is being sold now? Biographies and romantic stories, right?

- Mmmmm

- Fifteen percent of a million dollars is how much?

- Do you have a manuscript?

- It will be in a week.

- Do not forget to send stamps for return shipping.

- I'll bring her in person.

“Okay, Matthew, I'll see her.” But, dear, I no longer want to hear that this really happened.

- Leon, really happened.

- Goodbye, Matthew.

* * *

Six days Matthew Crichton “plowed” on his old Smith Crown ....