"C M Kornbluth - The Goodly Creatures" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kornbluth C M)

"It doesn't matter," said Farwell. "I should have known. I thought I pounded some sense into your head,
but I was wrong. You're forgiven, Angelo. I hope you have a good time. What are your plans?" He
wasn't really interested, but why go out of his way to kick the kid in the teeth? Obviously he'd meant it
when he registered surpriseтАФhe didn't have the boss's viewpoint and his other jobs had been one-week
stands in



hashhouses.



The boy carefully put his work card in his breast pocket and beamed again at what he was
sayingтАФpartly to Farwell, it appeared, mostly to himself in wonder at its coming true at last. "I'll be a
wiper at the start, all right," he said. "I don't care if I never get kigher than that. I want to see it and feel it,
all of it. That's the only way the real thing's ever going to get written. Higgins and Delare and Beeman and
the rest of themтАФpassengers. You can feel it in your bones when you read their stuff. One-trippers or
two-trippers.



"They aren't soaked in it. The big passage in Delare's Planetfall, the takeoff from Mars: he's full of the
wonder of it, sure. Who wouldn't be the first time? And he kept his eyes open, watching himself and the
others. But I'm going to take off from Earth and Mars and Venus and Ganymede and the Moon twenty
times before I dare to write about it. I'm going to get it allтАФbrains, bone, muscle, and bellyтАФtakeoff,
landings, free flight, danger, monotonyтАФall of it."



"Sonnets? Prose poems?" asked Farwell, just to be saying something.



Angelo flushed a little, but his eyes didn't have the old pleading look. He didn't have to plead; he had
what he wanted. "They were good exercise," he said stoutly. "I suppose I was trying to write form
because I didn't have content. I think it's going to be novelsтАФif I feel like it. And they can publish them or
not publish them, just as they please." He meant it, Farwell thought. He had what he wanted.



"I'll look forward to them," he said, and shook hands with the boy. He didn't notice him leave. Angelo
Messier, he thought; Pete Libonari. "тАФreally creative synthesis of Pinero



and ShawтАФ, pattered through his head, and the psychiatrist-thought followed naggingly after. He looked
at his hands in amazement, suddenly realizing that they had been trembling all morning uncontrollably.