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.I don't know just what it is he looks for; a shifty gleam in the eye, maybe, or maybe a scarletletter on my forehead.God knows why.My pension is large enough to be almost embarrassing.Cresswell and I were sitting on the terrace of his hotel room, sipping drinks and discussing the future of the USspace programme.It was about three-fifteen.My fingers began to itch.It wasn't a bit gradual.It was switched onlike electric current.I mentioned it to Cresswell.'So you picked up some poison ivy on that scrofulous little island,' he said, grinning.'The only foliage on Key Caroline is a little palmetto scrub,' I said.'Maybe it's the seven-year itch.' I looked downat my hands.Perfectly ordinary hands.But itchy.Later in the afternoon I signed the same old paper ('I do solemnly swear that I have neither received nor disclosedand divulged information which would.') and drove myself back to the Key.I've got an old Ford, equippedwith hand-operated brake and accelerator.I love it - it makes me feel self-sufficient.It's a long drive back, down Route 1, and by the time I got off the big road and on to the Key Caroline exit ramp,I was nearly out of my mind.My hands itched maddeningly.If you have ever suffered through the healing of adeep cut or a surgical incision, you may have some idea of the kind of itch I mean.Live things seemed to becrawling and boring in my flesh.The sun was almost down and I looked at my hands carefully in the glow of the dash lights.The tips of themwere red now, red in tiny, perfect circlets, just above the pad where the fingerprint is, where you get calluses ifyou play guitar.There were also red circles of infection on the space between the first and second joint of eachthumb and finger, and on the skin between the second joint and the knuckle.I pressed my right fingers to my lipsand withdrew them quickly, with a sudden loathing.A feeling of dumb horror had risen in my throat, woollenand choking.The flesh where the red spots had appeared was hot, feverish, and the flesh was soft and gelid, likethe flesh of an apple gone rotten.I drove the rest of the way trying to persuade myself that I had indeed caught poison ivy somehow.But in theback of my mind there was another ugly thought.I had an aunt, back in my childhood, who lived the last tenyears of her life closed off from the world in an upstairs room.My mother took her meals up, and her name was aforbidden topic.I found out later that she had Hansen's disease -leprosy.When I got home I called Dr Flanders on the mainland.I got his answering service instead.Dr Flanders was on afishing cruise, but if it was urgent, Dr Ballanger -'When will Dr Flanders be back?''Tomorrow afternoon at the latest.Would that -' 'Sure.'I hung up slowly, then dialled Richard.I let it ring a dozen times before hanging up.After that I sat indecisive fora while.The itching had deepened.It seemed to emanate from the flesh itself.file:///E|/Funny%20&%20Weird%20Shit/75%20-%20Ste.0Night%20Shift%20-%20I%20Am%20The%20Doorway.html (5 of 10)7/28/2005 9:03:27 PMI AM THE DOORWAYI rolled my wheelchair over to the bookcase and pulled down the battered medical encyclopedia that I'd had foryears.The book was maddeningly vague.It could have been anything, or nothing.I leaned back and closed my eyes.I could hear the old ship's clock ticking on the shelf across the room.Therewas the high, thin drone of a jet on its way to Miami.There was the soft whisper of my own breath.I was still looking at the book.The realization crept on me, then sank home with a frightening rush.My eyes were closed, but I was still lookingat the book.What I was seeing was smeary and monstrous, the distorted, fourth-dimensional counterpart of abook, yet unmistakable for all that.And I was not the only one watching.I snapped my eyes open, feeling the constriction of my heart.The sensation subsided a little, but not entirely.Iwas looking at the book, seeing the print and diagrams with my own eyes, perfectly normal everyday experience,and I was also seeing it from a different, lower angle and seeing it with other eyes.Seeing not a book but an alienthing, something of monstrous shape and ominous intent.I raised my hands slowly to my face, catching an eerie vision of my living room turned into a horror house.I screamed.There were eyes peering up at me through splits in the flesh of my fingers.And even as I watched the flesh wasdilating, retreating, as they pushed their mindless way up to the surface.But that was not what made me scream.I had looked into my own face and seen a monster [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]