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.You ll find water at anabandoned well. You know all that? Of course I know all that. Irritably, Jones tore a loose strip of cloth from the upholstery. WouldI be saying it if I didn t? Hyndshaw said nothing.He sat driving silently until, after twenty or so minutes, the temperaturegauge flashed, and he brought the Buick quickly to the side of the road.The only sound was the unhappy wheezing of the empty radiator.A few wisps of oil smoke curledupward from the vents of the hood. Well, Hyndshaw muttered shakily, fumbling for the door handle. I guess we better startlooking.Which way you say that well is? Because he didn t have to guess, Jones found the well instantly.It was half-buried under a heap ofstone, brick, and slats that had been a barn.Together, the two of them lowered a rusty bucket.Tenminutes later Hyndshaw was opening bottles of warm beer and showing off one of his magnetic belts.As he babbled his pitch, his mind raced furiously.Here was something.He had heard of mutants,even seen them.Hideous freaks, most of them; deformed monstrosities systematically destroyed bythe authorities.But this was something else; this was no oddity.Anybody who could eliminatesurprises, who could cut through guesswork&That was why Hyndshaw made a good salesman.He was a good guesser.But he could guesswrong; he could mis-evaluate a situation.Not so with the youth beside him.They both knew it.Hyndshaw was fascinated and impressed.Jones was contemptuous. How much money have you got? Hyndshaw demanded suddenly, interrupting his own pitch.Cunningly, he conjectured: You haven t got fifty bucks to your name.You couldn t afford one ofthese belts. I ve got fifty bucks, Jones said, but not for a cheap piece of fakery. Hyndshaw spluttered; in years of preying on ignorant rural populations, made even more fearfuland superstitious by the war, he had come to believe his own lies. What do you mean? he began, andthen shut up, as Jones told him. I see, Hyndshaw said, when the short, bitter tirade was done. You re quite a kid& you re notafraid to say what you think. Why should I be? Tightly, Hyndshaw said: Maybe somebody might kick your smart teeth down your throat, one of these days.Your wise-guy talk might not sit right with somebody& they might resent a punk kid. Not you, Jones told him. You re not going to lay a hand on me. What, then? You re going to propose we go into business together.Your stock of belts and experience myability.Fifty-fifty. Belts? You re coming in with me on the belt business? No, Jones answered. That s your idea.I m not interested in belts.We re going into bone-throwing. Hyndshaw was baffled. What s that? Gambling.Dice.Craps. I don t know anything about gambling. Hyndshaw was deeply suspicious. You re sure this is onthe level? You re sure this isn t a goddamn come-on? Jones didn t bother to answer; he continued what he had been saying. We ll operate a concessionat this cat house for maybe a month or so.You ll get most of the take; I m not interested.Then we llsplit up.You ll try to stop me and I ll turn the whole place in to the military police.The girls will besent to labor camps, you ll go to prison. Horrified, Hyndshaw gasped: God, I don t want anything to do with you. He grabbed up a beerbottle and smashed it against a nearby rock; the jagged teeth of glass oozed damp foam as he clutchedthe weapon convulsively.Repelled by the boy, he was nearing a point of hysteria. You re crazy! heshouted, half-lifting the bottle in an innate gesture of defense. Crazy? Jones was puzzled. Why? Jerkily, Hyndshaw gestured.Cold sweat leaked off his face, into his open collar. You re tellingme this? You sit there telling me what you re going to do to me? It s the truth. Tossing the bottle away, Hyndshaw savagely yanked the boy to his feet. Don t you know anythingbut the truth? he snarled, in despair.No, he didn t.How could he? For Jones there was no guessing, no error, and no false knowledge.He knew; he had absolute certainty. Take it or leave it, he said, shrugging indifferently.He hadalready lost interest in the fat salesman s fate; after all, it had happened a long time ago. Do whateveryou want. Gripping the boy futilely, Hyndshaw bellowed: You know I m stuck.You know I don t have achoice.You can see it! Nobody has a choice, Jones said, suddenly stern and thoughtful. Not me or you nobody.We re all chained up like cattle.Like slaves. Slowly, wretchedly, Hyndshaw let go of him. Why? he protested, raising his fat, empty hands. I don t know.That s something I can t tell you yet. Jones calmly finished his beer and thentossed the bottle into the dry weeds at the edge of the road.In the last year the weeds had grown sixfeet high. Let s go I m interested in getting into this cat house.It ll be the first time for me. Into the hygenic police cell stepped the dispatch carrier.He saluted the guards and handed over hispapers. All right, one of the guards said, nodding to Jones. Come along. The wait was over; he was on his way [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.You ll find water at anabandoned well. You know all that? Of course I know all that. Irritably, Jones tore a loose strip of cloth from the upholstery. WouldI be saying it if I didn t? Hyndshaw said nothing.He sat driving silently until, after twenty or so minutes, the temperaturegauge flashed, and he brought the Buick quickly to the side of the road.The only sound was the unhappy wheezing of the empty radiator.A few wisps of oil smoke curledupward from the vents of the hood. Well, Hyndshaw muttered shakily, fumbling for the door handle. I guess we better startlooking.Which way you say that well is? Because he didn t have to guess, Jones found the well instantly.It was half-buried under a heap ofstone, brick, and slats that had been a barn.Together, the two of them lowered a rusty bucket.Tenminutes later Hyndshaw was opening bottles of warm beer and showing off one of his magnetic belts.As he babbled his pitch, his mind raced furiously.Here was something.He had heard of mutants,even seen them.Hideous freaks, most of them; deformed monstrosities systematically destroyed bythe authorities.But this was something else; this was no oddity.Anybody who could eliminatesurprises, who could cut through guesswork&That was why Hyndshaw made a good salesman.He was a good guesser.But he could guesswrong; he could mis-evaluate a situation.Not so with the youth beside him.They both knew it.Hyndshaw was fascinated and impressed.Jones was contemptuous. How much money have you got? Hyndshaw demanded suddenly, interrupting his own pitch.Cunningly, he conjectured: You haven t got fifty bucks to your name.You couldn t afford one ofthese belts. I ve got fifty bucks, Jones said, but not for a cheap piece of fakery. Hyndshaw spluttered; in years of preying on ignorant rural populations, made even more fearfuland superstitious by the war, he had come to believe his own lies. What do you mean? he began, andthen shut up, as Jones told him. I see, Hyndshaw said, when the short, bitter tirade was done. You re quite a kid& you re notafraid to say what you think. Why should I be? Tightly, Hyndshaw said: Maybe somebody might kick your smart teeth down your throat, one of these days.Your wise-guy talk might not sit right with somebody& they might resent a punk kid. Not you, Jones told him. You re not going to lay a hand on me. What, then? You re going to propose we go into business together.Your stock of belts and experience myability.Fifty-fifty. Belts? You re coming in with me on the belt business? No, Jones answered. That s your idea.I m not interested in belts.We re going into bone-throwing. Hyndshaw was baffled. What s that? Gambling.Dice.Craps. I don t know anything about gambling. Hyndshaw was deeply suspicious. You re sure this is onthe level? You re sure this isn t a goddamn come-on? Jones didn t bother to answer; he continued what he had been saying. We ll operate a concessionat this cat house for maybe a month or so.You ll get most of the take; I m not interested.Then we llsplit up.You ll try to stop me and I ll turn the whole place in to the military police.The girls will besent to labor camps, you ll go to prison. Horrified, Hyndshaw gasped: God, I don t want anything to do with you. He grabbed up a beerbottle and smashed it against a nearby rock; the jagged teeth of glass oozed damp foam as he clutchedthe weapon convulsively.Repelled by the boy, he was nearing a point of hysteria. You re crazy! heshouted, half-lifting the bottle in an innate gesture of defense. Crazy? Jones was puzzled. Why? Jerkily, Hyndshaw gestured.Cold sweat leaked off his face, into his open collar. You re tellingme this? You sit there telling me what you re going to do to me? It s the truth. Tossing the bottle away, Hyndshaw savagely yanked the boy to his feet. Don t you know anythingbut the truth? he snarled, in despair.No, he didn t.How could he? For Jones there was no guessing, no error, and no false knowledge.He knew; he had absolute certainty. Take it or leave it, he said, shrugging indifferently.He hadalready lost interest in the fat salesman s fate; after all, it had happened a long time ago. Do whateveryou want. Gripping the boy futilely, Hyndshaw bellowed: You know I m stuck.You know I don t have achoice.You can see it! Nobody has a choice, Jones said, suddenly stern and thoughtful. Not me or you nobody.We re all chained up like cattle.Like slaves. Slowly, wretchedly, Hyndshaw let go of him. Why? he protested, raising his fat, empty hands. I don t know.That s something I can t tell you yet. Jones calmly finished his beer and thentossed the bottle into the dry weeds at the edge of the road.In the last year the weeds had grown sixfeet high. Let s go I m interested in getting into this cat house.It ll be the first time for me. Into the hygenic police cell stepped the dispatch carrier.He saluted the guards and handed over hispapers. All right, one of the guards said, nodding to Jones. Come along. The wait was over; he was on his way [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]