"C M Kornbluth - Thirteen O'Clock" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kornbluth C M)

Thirteen O'Clock



C. M. Kornbluth




Thirteen O'Clock



I

PETER PACKER folded the carpenter's rule and rose from his knees, brushing dust from the neat
crease of his serge trousers. No doubt of it-the house had a secret attic room. Peter didn't know anything
about sliding panels or hidden buttons; in the most direct way imaginable he lifted the axe he had brought
and crunched it into the wall.

On his third blow he holed through. The rush of air from the darkness was cool and sweet. Smart old
boy, his grandfather, thought Peter. Direct ventilation all over the house-even in a false compartment. He
chopped away heartily, the hollow strokes ringing through the empty attic and down the stairs.

He could have walked through the hole erect when he was satisfied with his labors; instead he cautiously
turned a flashlight inside the space. The beam was invisible; all dust had long since settled. Peter grunted.
The floor seemed to be sound. He tested it with one foot, half in, half out of the hidden chamber. It held.
 The young man stepped through easily, turning the flash on walls and floor. The room was not large, but
it was cluttered with a miscellany of objects-chests, furniture, knick-knacks and what-nots. Peter opened
a chest, wondering about pirate gold. But there was no gold, for the thing was full to the lid with chiffons
in delicate hues. A faint fragrance of musk filled the ah-; sachets long since packed away were not
entirely gone.

Funny thing to hide away, thought Peter. But Grandfather Packer had been a funny man-having this
house built to his own very sound plans, waiting always on the Braintree docks for the China and India
Clippers and what rare cargo they

might have brought. Chiffons! Peter pocked around in the box for a moment, then closed the lid again.
There were others.

He turned the beam of the light on a wall lined with shelves. Pots of old workmanship-spices and
preserves, probably. And a clock. Peter stared at the clock. It was about two by two by three feet-an
unusual and awkward size. The workmanship was plain, the case of crudely finished wood. And yet
there was something about it-his eyes widened as he realized what it was. The dial showed thirteen
hours!

Between the flat figures XII and I there was another-an equally flat XIII. What sort, of freak this was the
young man did not know. Vaguely he conjectured on prayer-time, egg-boiling and all the other practical
applications of chronometry. But nothing he could dredge up from his well-stored mind would square
with this freak. He set the, flash on a shelf and hefted the clock in his arms, lifting it easily.