The Impossibles
The sidewalk was as soft as a good bed. Malone lay curled on it,
thinking about nothing at all. He was drifting off into a wonderful
dream, and he didn't want to interrupt it. There was this girl, a
beautiful girl, more wonderful than anything he had ever imagined,
with big blue eyes and long blonde hair and a figure that made the
average pin-up girl look like a man. And she had her soft white hand
on his arm, and she was looking, up at him with trust and devotion and
even adoration in her eyes, and her voice was the softest possible
whisper of innocence and promise.
"I'd love to go up to your apartment with you, Mr. Malone," she said.
Malone smiled back at her, gently but with complete confidence. "Call
me Ken," he said, noticing that he was seven feet tall and superbly
muscled. He put his free hand on the girl's warm, soft shoulder and
she wriggled with delight.
"All right--Ken," she said. "You know, I've never met anyone like you
before. I mean, you're so wonderful and everything."
Malone chuckled modestly, realizing, in passing, how full and rich his
voice had become. He felt a weight pressing over his heart, and knew
that it was his wallet, stuffed to bursting with thousand-dollar
bills.
But was this a time to think of money?
No, Malone told himself. This was the time for adventure, for romance,
for love. He looked down at the girl and put his arm around her waist.
She snuggled closer.
He led her easily down the long wide street to his car at the end of
the block. It stood in godlike solitude, a beautiful red Cadillac
capable of going a hundred and ten miles an hour in any gear, equipped
with fully automatic steering and braking, and with a stereophonic
radio, a hi-fi and a 3-D set installed in both front and back seats.
It was a 1972 job, but he meant to trade it in on something even
better when the 1973 models came out. In the meantime, he decided, it
would do.
He handed the girl in, went round to the other side and slid in under
the wheel. There was soft music playing somewhere, and a magnificent
sunset appeared ahead of them as Malone pushed a button on the
dashboard and the red Cadillac started off down the wide, empty,
wonderfully paved street into the sunset, while he... The red
Cadillac?
The sidewalk became a little harder, and, Malone suddenly realized
that he was lying on it. Something terrible had happened; he knew that
right away. He opened his eyes to look for the girl, but the sunset
had become much brighter; his head began to pound with the slow
regularity of a dead-march, and he closed his eyes again in a hurry.
The sidewalk swayed a little, but he managed to keep his balance on it
somehow; and after a couple of minutes it was quiet again. His head
hurt. Maybe that was the terrible thing that had happened, but Malone
wasn't quite sure. As a matter of fact, he wasn't very sure about
anything, and he started to ask himself questions to make certain he
was all there.
He didn't feel all there. He felt as if several of his parts had been
replaced with second- or even third-hand experimental models, and
something had happened to the experiment. It was even hard to think of
any questions, but after a while he managed to come up with a few.
_What is your name?_
Kenneth Malone.
_Where do you live?_
Washington, D. C.
_What is your work?_
I work for the FBI.
_Then what the hell are you doing on a sidewalk in New York in broad
daylight?_
He tried to find an answer to that, but there didn't seem to be any,
no matter where he looked. The only thing he could think of was the
red Cadillac.
And if the red Cadillac had anything to do with anything, Malone
didn't know about it.
Very slowly and carefully, he opened his eyes again, one at a time. He
discovered that the light was not coming from the gorgeous Hollywood
sunset he had dreamed up. As a matter of fact, sunset was several
hours in the past, and it never looked very pretty in New York anyhow.
It was the middle of the night, and Malone was lying under a
convenient street lamp.
He closed his eyes again and waited patiently for his head to go away.
A few minutes passed. It was obvious that his head had settled down
for a long stay, and no matter how bad it felt, Malone told himself,
it _was_ his head, after all. He felt a certain responsibility for it.
And he couldn't just leave it lying around somewhere with its eyes
closed.
"1009195359"
thinking about nothing at all. He was drifting off into a wonderful
dream, and he didn't want to interrupt it. There was this girl, a
beautiful girl, more wonderful than anything he had ever imagined,
with big blue eyes and long blonde hair and a figure that made the
average pin-up girl look like a man. And she had her soft white hand
on his arm, and she was looking, up at him with trust and devotion and
even adoration in her eyes, and her voice was the softest possible
whisper of innocence and promise.
"I'd love to go up to your apartment with you, Mr. Malone," she said.
Malone smiled back at her, gently but with complete confidence. "Call
me Ken," he said, noticing that he was seven feet tall and superbly
muscled. He put his free hand on the girl's warm, soft shoulder and
she wriggled with delight.
"All right--Ken," she said. "You know, I've never met anyone like you
before. I mean, you're so wonderful and everything."
Malone chuckled modestly, realizing, in passing, how full and rich his
voice had become. He felt a weight pressing over his heart, and knew
that it was his wallet, stuffed to bursting with thousand-dollar
bills.
But was this a time to think of money?
No, Malone told himself. This was the time for adventure, for romance,
for love. He looked down at the girl and put his arm around her waist.
She snuggled closer.
He led her easily down the long wide street to his car at the end of
the block. It stood in godlike solitude, a beautiful red Cadillac
capable of going a hundred and ten miles an hour in any gear, equipped
with fully automatic steering and braking, and with a stereophonic
radio, a hi-fi and a 3-D set installed in both front and back seats.
It was a 1972 job, but he meant to trade it in on something even
better when the 1973 models came out. In the meantime, he decided, it
would do.
He handed the girl in, went round to the other side and slid in under
the wheel. There was soft music playing somewhere, and a magnificent
sunset appeared ahead of them as Malone pushed a button on the
dashboard and the red Cadillac started off down the wide, empty,
wonderfully paved street into the sunset, while he... The red
Cadillac?
The sidewalk became a little harder, and, Malone suddenly realized
that he was lying on it. Something terrible had happened; he knew that
right away. He opened his eyes to look for the girl, but the sunset
had become much brighter; his head began to pound with the slow
regularity of a dead-march, and he closed his eyes again in a hurry.
The sidewalk swayed a little, but he managed to keep his balance on it
somehow; and after a couple of minutes it was quiet again. His head
hurt. Maybe that was the terrible thing that had happened, but Malone
wasn't quite sure. As a matter of fact, he wasn't very sure about
anything, and he started to ask himself questions to make certain he
was all there.
He didn't feel all there. He felt as if several of his parts had been
replaced with second- or even third-hand experimental models, and
something had happened to the experiment. It was even hard to think of
any questions, but after a while he managed to come up with a few.
_What is your name?_
Kenneth Malone.
_Where do you live?_
Washington, D. C.
_What is your work?_
I work for the FBI.
_Then what the hell are you doing on a sidewalk in New York in broad
daylight?_
He tried to find an answer to that, but there didn't seem to be any,
no matter where he looked. The only thing he could think of was the
red Cadillac.
And if the red Cadillac had anything to do with anything, Malone
didn't know about it.
Very slowly and carefully, he opened his eyes again, one at a time. He
discovered that the light was not coming from the gorgeous Hollywood
sunset he had dreamed up. As a matter of fact, sunset was several
hours in the past, and it never looked very pretty in New York anyhow.
It was the middle of the night, and Malone was lying under a
convenient street lamp.
He closed his eyes again and waited patiently for his head to go away.
A few minutes passed. It was obvious that his head had settled down
for a long stay, and no matter how bad it felt, Malone told himself,
it _was_ his head, after all. He felt a certain responsibility for it.
And he couldn't just leave it lying around somewhere with its eyes
closed.
The Impossibles
The sidewalk was as soft as a good bed. Malone lay curled on it,
thinking about nothing at all. He was drifting off into a wonderful
dream, and he didn't want to interrupt it. There was this girl, a
beautiful girl, more wonderful than anything he had ever imagined,
with big blue eyes and long blonde hair and a figure that made the
average pin-up girl look like a man. And she had her soft white hand
on his arm, and she was looking, up at him with trust and devotion and
even adoration in her eyes, and her voice was the softest possible
whisper of innocence and promise.
"I'd love to go up to your apartment with you, Mr. Malone," she said.
Malone smiled back at her, gently but with complete confidence. "Call
me Ken," he said, noticing that he was seven feet tall and superbly
muscled. He put his free hand on the girl's warm, soft shoulder and
she wriggled with delight.
"All right--Ken," she said. "You know, I've never met anyone like you
before. I mean, you're so wonderful and everything."
Malone chuckled modestly, realizing, in passing, how full and rich his
voice had become. He felt a weight pressing over his heart, and knew
that it was his wallet, stuffed to bursting with thousand-dollar
bills.
But was this a time to think of money?
No, Malone told himself. This was the time for adventure, for romance,
for love. He looked down at the girl and put his arm around her waist.
She snuggled closer.
He led her easily down the long wide street to his car at the end of
the block. It stood in godlike solitude, a beautiful red Cadillac
capable of going a hundred and ten miles an hour in any gear, equipped
with fully automatic steering and braking, and with a stereophonic
radio, a hi-fi and a 3-D set installed in both front and back seats.
It was a 1972 job, but he meant to trade it in on something even
better when the 1973 models came out. In the meantime, he decided, it
would do.
He handed the girl in, went round to the other side and slid in under
the wheel. There was soft music playing somewhere, and a magnificent
sunset appeared ahead of them as Malone pushed a button on the
dashboard and the red Cadillac started off down the wide, empty,
wonderfully paved street into the sunset, while he... The red
Cadillac?
The sidewalk became a little harder, and, Malone suddenly realized
that he was lying on it. Something terrible had happened; he knew that
right away. He opened his eyes to look for the girl, but the sunset
had become much brighter; his head began to pound with the slow
regularity of a dead-march, and he closed his eyes again in a hurry.
The sidewalk swayed a little, but he managed to keep his balance on it
somehow; and after a couple of minutes it was quiet again. His head
hurt. Maybe that was the terrible thing that had happened, but Malone
wasn't quite sure. As a matter of fact, he wasn't very sure about
anything, and he started to ask himself questions to make certain he
was all there.
He didn't feel all there. He felt as if several of his parts had been
replaced with second- or even third-hand experimental models, and
something had happened to the experiment. It was even hard to think of
any questions, but after a while he managed to come up with a few.
_What is your name?_
Kenneth Malone.
_Where do you live?_
Washington, D. C.
_What is your work?_
I work for the FBI.
_Then what the hell are you doing on a sidewalk in New York in broad
daylight?_
He tried to find an answer to that, but there didn't seem to be any,
no matter where he looked. The only thing he could think of was the
red Cadillac.
And if the red Cadillac had anything to do with anything, Malone
didn't know about it.
Very slowly and carefully, he opened his eyes again, one at a time. He
discovered that the light was not coming from the gorgeous Hollywood
sunset he had dreamed up. As a matter of fact, sunset was several
hours in the past, and it never looked very pretty in New York anyhow.
It was the middle of the night, and Malone was lying under a
convenient street lamp.
He closed his eyes again and waited patiently for his head to go away.
A few minutes passed. It was obvious that his head had settled down
for a long stay, and no matter how bad it felt, Malone told himself,
it _was_ his head, after all. He felt a certain responsibility for it.
And he couldn't just leave it lying around somewhere with its eyes
closed.
thinking about nothing at all. He was drifting off into a wonderful
dream, and he didn't want to interrupt it. There was this girl, a
beautiful girl, more wonderful than anything he had ever imagined,
with big blue eyes and long blonde hair and a figure that made the
average pin-up girl look like a man. And she had her soft white hand
on his arm, and she was looking, up at him with trust and devotion and
even adoration in her eyes, and her voice was the softest possible
whisper of innocence and promise.
"I'd love to go up to your apartment with you, Mr. Malone," she said.
Malone smiled back at her, gently but with complete confidence. "Call
me Ken," he said, noticing that he was seven feet tall and superbly
muscled. He put his free hand on the girl's warm, soft shoulder and
she wriggled with delight.
"All right--Ken," she said. "You know, I've never met anyone like you
before. I mean, you're so wonderful and everything."
Malone chuckled modestly, realizing, in passing, how full and rich his
voice had become. He felt a weight pressing over his heart, and knew
that it was his wallet, stuffed to bursting with thousand-dollar
bills.
But was this a time to think of money?
No, Malone told himself. This was the time for adventure, for romance,
for love. He looked down at the girl and put his arm around her waist.
She snuggled closer.
He led her easily down the long wide street to his car at the end of
the block. It stood in godlike solitude, a beautiful red Cadillac
capable of going a hundred and ten miles an hour in any gear, equipped
with fully automatic steering and braking, and with a stereophonic
radio, a hi-fi and a 3-D set installed in both front and back seats.
It was a 1972 job, but he meant to trade it in on something even
better when the 1973 models came out. In the meantime, he decided, it
would do.
He handed the girl in, went round to the other side and slid in under
the wheel. There was soft music playing somewhere, and a magnificent
sunset appeared ahead of them as Malone pushed a button on the
dashboard and the red Cadillac started off down the wide, empty,
wonderfully paved street into the sunset, while he... The red
Cadillac?
The sidewalk became a little harder, and, Malone suddenly realized
that he was lying on it. Something terrible had happened; he knew that
right away. He opened his eyes to look for the girl, but the sunset
had become much brighter; his head began to pound with the slow
regularity of a dead-march, and he closed his eyes again in a hurry.
The sidewalk swayed a little, but he managed to keep his balance on it
somehow; and after a couple of minutes it was quiet again. His head
hurt. Maybe that was the terrible thing that had happened, but Malone
wasn't quite sure. As a matter of fact, he wasn't very sure about
anything, and he started to ask himself questions to make certain he
was all there.
He didn't feel all there. He felt as if several of his parts had been
replaced with second- or even third-hand experimental models, and
something had happened to the experiment. It was even hard to think of
any questions, but after a while he managed to come up with a few.
_What is your name?_
Kenneth Malone.
_Where do you live?_
Washington, D. C.
_What is your work?_
I work for the FBI.
_Then what the hell are you doing on a sidewalk in New York in broad
daylight?_
He tried to find an answer to that, but there didn't seem to be any,
no matter where he looked. The only thing he could think of was the
red Cadillac.
And if the red Cadillac had anything to do with anything, Malone
didn't know about it.
Very slowly and carefully, he opened his eyes again, one at a time. He
discovered that the light was not coming from the gorgeous Hollywood
sunset he had dreamed up. As a matter of fact, sunset was several
hours in the past, and it never looked very pretty in New York anyhow.
It was the middle of the night, and Malone was lying under a
convenient street lamp.
He closed his eyes again and waited patiently for his head to go away.
A few minutes passed. It was obvious that his head had settled down
for a long stay, and no matter how bad it felt, Malone told himself,
it _was_ his head, after all. He felt a certain responsibility for it.
And he couldn't just leave it lying around somewhere with its eyes
closed.
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The Impossibles
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940012760265 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | SAP |
| Publication date: | 07/24/2011 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 134 KB |
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