"Charles L. Harness-An Ornament to His Profession" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harness Charles L)

An Ornament to His Profession
by Charles L. Harness
This story copyright 1966 by Charles L. Harness.Reprinted by permission of Linn Prentiss.This copy
was created for Jean Hardy's personal use.All other rights are reserved. Thank you for honoring the
copyright.

Published by Seattle Book Company, www.seattlebook.com.

* * *


For ten years I had been very busy just being a patent attorney, and hadn't written anything. But now
Shan was heading off to college, and I was looking at new expenses. Time to get back into the arena.
Write what you know about, the experts say. So I wrote this little novelette about life in a patent
department in a chemical laboratory. Plus ghosts... plus a demon.... stuff that ordinarily would make John
Campbell turn purple. But he took it anyway.
The locale is real. The lab is right up the road from where I live. The little woodlot, the stream, the
stone desk (sinking slowly into the creek) are my own. The lilacs (now dead) were genuine Charles Joli's.
(Wife Nell called them "Jolly Chollies.") How did she and Shan react to the story? They eventually
forgave me. I think.
***


* * *


* * *


The world has different owners at sunrise... Even your own garden does not belong to you.
-- Anne Lindbergh
***


Conrad Patrick reached over and shut off the alarm. The dream of soft flesh and dark hair faded into
six o'clock of a Friday morning. Patrick lay there a moment, pushing Lilas out of his thoughts, keeping his
mind dark with the room, his body numb.
To move was to accept wakefulness, and this was unthinkable, for wakefulness must lead to
knowledge, and then the problem barbs would begin to do their ulcerous work in his brain. They would
begin, one by one, until all were in hideous clamor. None of them seemed ever to get really solved, and
getting rid of one didn't necessarily mean he had solved it. More often, getting rid of it just meant he had
found some sort of neutralizing paralysis, or that he had once more increased his pain threshold.
Patrick got up heavily, found his robe and slippers, and stumbled into the bathroom, where he turned
on the light and surveyed his face with overt distaste. It was a heavy, fleshy face, and the red hair and
mustache were awry. He was not exactly thin, but not really fat, either. His cheeks and stomach showed
the effects of myriad beers in convivial company. He considered these beers, these cheerful hours, one
by one, going back, in a mirrored moment of wonder and gratitude. He considered what life would have
been like without them, and as the realization hit, his forehead creased uneasily. He scowled, dashed
water over his eyes, and reached for a towel.
 "Patrick," he muttered to himself in the mirror, "it's Friday. Another day has begun, and still the