"Horace Gold - Inside Man & Other Science Fiction Stories" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gold Horace)

buy another."
"It's not broken. That isn't the trouble," he sighed again, and turned over and
moodily went to sleep.
***
The problem was still on his mind in the pre-dawn at the market. Kale was coming in
nicely and he had bought all the primes offered by the farmers. He morosely helped
Arnie, his driver, load up.
"What happened to the old zip?" Arnie asked concernedly. "'You were feeling great
for a while. Down in the dumps again?"
"I guess so," said Les. "Temporarily, at least. I hope."
"You ought to try tooling one of these monmouths through city traffic. Gotta judge
every inch of the way. Boy, you drive one and I bet you won't have a minute toтАУ"
Les found himself listening intently, but not to Arnie's good-natured chatter.
Something was wrong. He knew it was wrong. But what?
No, not like walking barefooted on spilled sugar, he mused. Though it was a little like
that тАУ sort of gritty. But painful, too. As if he were trying to run with a sore socket in
his leg.
"You've got a bearing burning out," Les interrupted.
Arnie took a fast glance at him. "Since when you know about motors, Boss?"
"A bearing," said Les. "That's what it feels like."
Les nodded at a service station up ahead. "Pull in there. I want to have it checked."
The garage man examined the motor and found a bearing rubbed so raw that Les
had to turn away in compassion and disgust. He left Arnie, puzzled enough to be
silent for once, at the service station and walked alone the rest of the way to the
office.
Les discovered he was surrounded by sensations ranging from purrs of pleasure all
the way to groans of pain. One purr came from a trim little Porsche тАУ new tune-up
job, a little heavy on the grease, but that would thin out on the straightaway, he
thought, and the unexpected thought alarmed him.
Thought? He considered. It was a feeling, a very strong and explicit emotion. So
was the sympathy for a passing cab that really wanted to lie down on some nice,
restful junk pile. A painful click, click bothered him. He looked up. It was a tower
clock, desperately clawing its way around the hours on eroded cams. Damn the
sadists who would put a conscientious servant through such torture, he thought
angrily.
But he felt equally guilty when he came into the office and heard Miss Zither typing.
The dogs in the escape mechanism were practically howling and the keys were
moving only because her slim but powerful fingers were beating them into moving.
"Leave that alone!" Les said, more sharply than he'd intended. "I mean, no more
typing for today," he amended when she jumped and looked frightened.
"But the filing's all done and I have a perfect mess of correspondence to get out,"
she objected. "If I don't do it todayтАУ"
"Not on that battered hulk," he told her.
He called and ordered a new electric typewriter. Miss Zeichner was, as she put it,
thrilled. He shrugged. She always was either thrilled or absolutely тАУ completely and
absolutely тАУ shattered. But only over unimportant things.
For instance, was she completely and absolutely shattered by the pained limpings
and clenched-teeth determination to do a job, to keep those pistons pumping no
matter what the cost; completely and absolutely thrilled by the sleek, contented
murmurs, the happy little laughs of conscious strength, easy power, the cared-for