"The World Jones Made" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dick Phillip K)

"Sure, you're going somewhere," Hyndshaw opined.

And then the event happened. Words, actions, taking place at the perimeter of the moving wave, had become eternally fixed. One year ago, the exhausted boy had uttered a brusque, thoughtless remark. He had had the interval to reap the provocative harvest from that remark.

"Don't tell me where I'm going," he shot back. "I can see; I can see where you're going, too."

"Where'm I going?" Hyndshaw retorted testily; he was on his way to a nearby house of ill repute, and the area was still under military jurisdiction.

Jones told him.

"How do you know?" Hyndshaw demanded hoarsely, breaking into Jones' detailed account of the man's forthcoming activity "You goddamn foul-mouthed kid--" White and frightened, he shouted: "What are you, a goddamn mind reader?"

"No," Jones answered "But I'm going along. I'll be with you."

That sobered Hyndshaw even more. For a time he didn't talk; unnerved, he clenched the wheel and glared ahead at the pitted, dilapidated road. Here and there, on each side, were the abandoned shells of houses. This region, around St. Louis, had been forcibly evacuated after a successful shower of Soviet bacterial pellets. The inhabitants were still in forced labor camps, rebuilding more vitally needed areas; industrial and agricultural production came first.

Hyndshaw was frightened, but at the same time his natural greed and interest grew. He was a born opportunist. God knew what he had stumbled on. He decided to proceed cautiously.

"You know what I've got back there?" he said, indicating the piles of slender cartons. "Give you three guesses."

The concept guess was alien to Jones. "Magnetic belts," he answered. "Fifty dollars retail, forty dollars in lots of ten or more. Guaranteed to ward off toxic radioactivity and bacterial poisons or your money back."

Licking his lips nervously, Hyndshaw asked: "Did I already talk to you? Maybe up around the Chicago area?"

"You're going to try to sell me one. When we stop for water."

Hyndshaw hadn't intended to stop for water; he was late as it was. "Water?" he muttered. "Why water? Who's thirsty?"

"The radiator's leaking."

"How do you know?"

"In fifteen minutes--" Jones reflected; he had forgotten the exact interval. "In around half an hour your temperature gauge is going to flash, and you're going to have to stop. You'll find water at an abandoned well."

"You know all that?"

"Of course I know all that." Irritably, Jones tore a loose strip of cloth from the upholstery. "Would I be saying it if I didn't?"

Hyndshaw said nothing. He sat driving silently until, after twenty or so minutes, the temperature gauge 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 curled upward from the vents of the hood.

"Well," Hyndshaw muttered shakily, fumbling for the door handle. "I guess we better start looking. 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 of stone, brick, and slats that had been a barn. Together, the two of them lowered a rusty bucket. Ten minutes 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 by the authorities. But this was something else; this was no oddity. Anybody who could eliminate surprises, who could cut through guesswork . . .

That was why Hyndshaw made a good salesman. He was a good guesser. But he could guess wrong; he could misevaluate a situation. Not so with the youth beside him. They both knew it. Hyndshaw was fascinated and impressed. Jones was contemptuous.