"C. M. Kornbluth & Donald A. Wollheim - Interplane Express" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kornbluth C M)

INTERPLANE EXPRESS
McFee and Spike hissed down the big four-lane highway. McFee was full of youth and the devil.
Spike, being a brand-new Cadillon Eight, was full of hi-test Rocony.
It was a week-day morning and the roads were clear. McFee had been stepping it up to fifty and
fifty-five without spotting a state trooper; he was on the tail-end of last night's bust and was still feeling the
wine.
Spike was a sweet car. His nose was red and his fenders were glossy; the concealed headlights lifted
or vanished as one flicked a button on the dashboard. Speed? They had gone eighty for a couple of
reckless minutes on a fine straightaway, and the motor hadn't even worked at it.
He shot past a number of small upstate towns just waking into life. Hearing the clang of a school bell,
he slowed down considerably. Whatever his other vices, McFee wasn't a baby-killer. The delights of the
highway were manifold; it was one of the latest things laid on the map. The turns were rough-surface
concrete, gripping the tires like chewing-gum.
There was a cut-off, and McFee took it in spite of the unfinished look of the road. There were hunks
of concrete here and there; some road-building machinery tooтАФtractors and drags. He eased his way
along the lumpish surface, noting with approval how Spike's springs cushioned him nicely as they
slammed into a sack of gravel or rolled over a smoothing-hoard.
The end of the rubble was marked by a sign. McFee glanced at the marker as he rolled past, then
shook his head and remarked "Huh?" just as if he were in the movies. He reversed and stopped before
the sign, which said:

INTPL. HWY.
CONN., US
ROUTE ONE

That wasn't all it said, but that was all McFee could read. Because the rest of what it saidтАФright
below the EnglishтАФwas in an alphabet he didn't know, stuff that looked like shorthand, but connected.
Or like the peak-and-valley code of the language-scrambling machines.
McFee shrugged and went on down the Intpl. Hwy. Route One. It was completely deserted; he had
the only car on it. But the scenery was swellтАФthe green, rolling hills of New England, sheep here and
there. He shot past another road-sign which said:

SPEED UP TO SIXTY-FIVE MPH

and below it more of the peak-and-valley talk. McFee obeyed, though it was a novelty to find such a
request. It made sense, though. This was a high-speed road if ever there was one. For, after the
speed-sign the highway doubled, it developed a parkway strip down the center and banked heavily on all
turns.
There were lots of turns. Some of them didn't make sense at all, being S-shaped when there wasn't
any hill to avoid climbing by the S. There were deliberately constructed curving ramps, high piles of
concrete. McFee was fighting the wheel, damning the wide play that the late-model cars all had. Not that
there was any danger; the road was too scientifically constructed for that, but he had to keep his eyes
well on the concrete and miss the scenery. Out of the corner of his eye he sensed that the country was
changing ever so slightly. The hills were higher and more bare of foliage. Hell! He couldn't be in the
Green Mountains yetтАФcould he?
Another sign flashed by, then another in case he had missed the first. They said:

SPEED UP TO EIGHTY-FIVE MPH
 and a third sign following simply added