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

Problems.
 Was this why he couldn't write, why he couldn't even get started? He blinked, shook his head. Only
then did he realize that he was still staring, unseeing, at the handwritten notes in front of him.
He leafed slowly through the scribblings. How long ago had he started the article? Months? Nearly
three years ago, in fact. He had wanted to do something comprehensive, to attain some small measure of
fame. This was the real reason lawyers wrote. Or was it? Some time soon, he'd have to re-examine this
thing, lay bare his real motives. It was just barely conceivable it would be something quite unpleasant. He
gave a last morose look at the title page, "The College Thesis as Prior Art in Chemical Patent
Interferences," and put the papers back in the envelope. He just didn't know how to put this thing back
on the rails. Fundamentally he must be just plain lazy.
But time was wasting. He looked at his wristwatch, put the papers back, closed the drawer, and
walked out to the lily pond again.
It was in the same wet sparkle of sunlight that he remembered his baby daughter, splashing in naked
glee that warm summer day so many months ago. Lilas had stood there and called the baby out of the
pool to get dressed, for that fatal Saturday afternoon trip to the shopping center. And his daughter had
climbed out of the pool, ignored the tiny terry cloth robe, and dashed dripping wet into her father's arms.
At least her front got dried as he held her writhing wetness against his shirt, patting her dancing little
bottom with the palm of his hand.
Slowly he sat down again. It must have been that sunbeam on the pool. It was going to be bad. He
began to shudder. He wanted to scream. He bent over and buried his face in his hands. For a time he
breathed in noisy rasps. Finally he stood up again, wiped his gray face on the sleeve of his robe, and
started back up the garden path to the house. He would have to be on his way to the office. As soon as
he got to the office, he would be all right.
***


* * *


* * *

'Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days
Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays...
-- Omar Khayyam
***


Patrick sometimes had the impression that he was just a pawn on Alec Cord's chessboard. Cord was
always looking seven moves deep, and into a dozen alternate sequences. Patrick sighed. He had long
suspected that they were all smarter than he was, certainly each doing his job better than Patrick could
do it. It was only the trainees that he could really teach anything anymore, and even here he had to fight
to find the time. Nothing about it made sense. The higher you rose in the company, the less you knew
about anything, and the more you had to rely on the facts and appraisals developed by people under you.
They could make a better patent search than he; they could write a better patent specification, and do it
faster; they could draft better and more comprehensive infringement opinions. In a gloomy moment he
had wondered whether it was the same way throughout the company, and if so, why had the company
nevertheless grown into the Big Ten of the American chemical industry? But he never figured it out.
He looked up at his lieutenant. "I understand it was the crucial game, in the last round. If you beat
Gadsen, you won the tournament, and if he beat you, he won."
"Didn't realize you followed the sports page, Con," said Alec Cord.