"Robert A. Heinlein - The unpleasant profession of Johathan Ho" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

The Unpleasant Profession of
Jonathan Hoag

Robert A. Heinlein

-- 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


I

"Is it blood, doctor?" 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. "Any particular reason," he asked, "why you should find blood under your
fingernails?"
"No. That is to say -- Well, no -- there isn't. But it is blood -- isn't it?"
"No," Potbury said heavily. "No, it isn't blood."
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 --
"What is it, doctor? Tell me."
Potbury looked him up and down. "You asked me a specific question. I've
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."
 "But -- You are playing with me. Show me the analysis." 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.
"Why, you!"
"Take your practice elsewhere," Potbury answered. "Never mind the fee. Get out.
And don't come back."
Hoag found himself on the street, walking toward the elevated station. He was
still much shaken by the doctor's 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