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Immortality, Inc. / (Sheckley Robert / )

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Immortality, Inc. /   (Sheckley Robert /  )

Immortality, Inc. /


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: 18 997
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Immortality, Inc. / (Sheckley Robert / )
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2011
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Sheckley Robert /
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Bronson Pinchot
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/ / / upper-intermediate
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upper-intermediate
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05:48:17
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96 kbps

Immortality, Inc. / :

.doc (Word) sheckley-robert.-immortality-inc.doc [409 Kb] (c: 451) .
audiobook (MP3) robert_sheckley.immortality.mp3 [239.35 Mb] (c: 1069) .

(MP3) + (.doc) "Immortality, Inc. / " (Sheckley Robert / ) ():


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IMMORTALITY, INC by Robert Sheckley PART ONE 1 Afterwards, Thomas Blaine thought about the manner of his dying and wished it had been more interesting. Why couldn't his death have come while he was battling a typhoon, meeting a tiger's charge, or climbing a windswept mountain? Why had his death been so tame, so commonplace, so ordinary? But an enterprising death, he realized, would have been out of character for him. Undoubtedly he was meant to die in just the quick, common, messy, painless way he did. And all his life must have gone into the forming and shaping of that death _ a vague indication in childhood, a fair promise in his college years, an implacable certainty at the age of thirty-two. Still, no matter how commonplace, one's death is the most interesting event of one's life. Blaine thought about his with intense curiosity. He had to know about those minutes, those last precious seconds when his own particular death lay waiting for him on a dark New Jersey highway. Had there been some warning sign, some portent? What had he done, or not done? What had he been thinking? Those final seconds were crucial to him. How, exactly, had he died? He had been driving over a straight, empty white highway, his headlights probing ahead, the darkness receding endlessly before him. His speedometer read seventy-five. It felt like forty. Far down the road he saw headlights coming toward him, the first in hours. Blaine was returning to New York after a week's vacation at his cabin on Chesapeake Bay. He had fished and swum and dozed in the sun on the rough planks of his dock. One day he sailed his sloop to Oxford and attended a dance at the yacht club that night. He met a silly, pert-nosed girl in a blue dress who told him he looked like a South Seas adventurer, so tanned and tall in his khakis. He sailed back to his cabin the next day, to doze in the sun and dream of giving up everything, loading his sailboat with canned goods and heading for Tahiti. Ah Raiatea, the mountains of Morrea, the fresh trade wind _ But a continent and an ocean lay between him and Tahiti, and other obstacles besides. The thought was only for an hour's dreaming, and definitely not to be acted upon. Now he was returning to New York, to his job as a junior yacht designer for the famous old firm of Mattison

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