"Heinlein, Robert A- The Unpleasant Profession of Jonathan Hoag" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

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THE UNPLEASANT PROFESSION OF JONATHAN HOAG

THE MAN WHO TRAVELED IN ELEPHANTS

УALL YOU ZOMBIESФ

THEY

OUR FAIR CITY

УAND HE BUILT A CROOKED HOUSEФ



THE UNPLEASANT PROFESSION OF JONATHAN HOAG


-the end it is not well.
From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives forever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.
-SWINBURNE



УIs it blood, doctor?Ф Jonathan Hoag moistened his lips with his tongue and leaned forward in the chair, trying to see what was written on the slip of paper the medico held.
Dr. Potbury brought the slip of paper closer to his vest and looked at Hoag over his spectacles. УAny particular reason,Ф he asked, Уwhy you should find blood under your fingernails?Ф
УNo. That is to say- Well, no-there isnТt. But it is blood-isnТt it?Ф
УNo,Ф Potbury said heavily. УNo, it isnТt blood.Ф
Hoag knew that he should have felt relieved. But he was not. He knew in that moment that he had clung to the notion that the brown grime under his fingernails was dry blood rather than let himself dwell on other, less tolerable, ideas.
He felt sick at his stomach. But he had to know-
УWhat is it, doctor? Tell me.Ф
Potbury looked him up and down. УYou asked me a specific question. IТve answered it. You did not ask me what the substance was; you asked me to find out whether or not it was blood. It is not.Ф
УBut- You are playing with me. Show me the analysis.Ф Hoag half rose from his chair and reached for the slip of paper.
The doctor held it away from him, then tore it carefully in two. Placing the two pieces together he tore them again, and again.
УWhy, you!Ф
УTake your practice elsewhere,Ф Potbury answered. УNever mind the fee. Get out. And donТt come back.Ф
Hoag found himself on the street, walking toward the elevated station. He was still much shaken by the doctorТs rudeness. He was afraid of rudeness as some persons are of snakes, or great heights, or small rooms. Bad manners, even when not directed at him personally but simply displayed to others in his presence, left him sick and helpless and overcome with shame.
If he himself were the butt of boorishness he had no defense save flight.
He set one foot on the bottom step of the stairs leading up to the elevated station and hesitated. A trip by elevated was a trying thing at best, what with the pushing and the jostling and the grimy dirt and the ever-present chance of uncouth behavior; he knew that he was not up to it at the moment. If he had to listen to the cars screaming around the curve as they turned north toward the Loop, he suspected that he would scream, too.