"Henry Kuttner & C. L. Moore - Prisoner In The Skull" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kuttner Henry)

had taken over.

Fowler grimaced and looked hopefully up and down the road. He saw nobody. So he lifted his guest across the
threshold and carried him easily to a couch. Fine, he thought. Veronica due any minute, and this paperweight barging
in.

Brandy seemed to help. It brought no color to the pale cheeks, but it pried the eyelids open to show a blank,
wondering look.

"O.K. now?" Fowler asked, wanting to add, "Then go home."

There was only the questioning stare. Fowler stood up with some vague intention of calling a doctor, and then
remembered that the televisor instrument hadn't yet been delivered. For this was a day when artificial shortages had
begun to supplant real ones, when raw material was plentiful but consumers were wary, and were, therefore, put on a
starvation diet to build their appetites and loosen their purse strings. The televisor would be delivered when the
company thought Fowler had waited long enough.

Lucidly he was versatile. As long as the electricity was on he could jury-rig anything else he needed, including
facilities for first aid. He gave his patient the routine treatment, with satisfying results. Until, that is, the brandy
suddenly hit certain nerve centers and emesis resulted.

Fowler lugged his guest back from the bathroom and left him on the bed in the room with the broken light switch to
recuperate. Convalescence was rapid. Soon the man sat up, but all he did was look at Fowler hopefully. Questions
brought no answers.

Ten minutes later the blank man was still sitting there, looking blank.

The door chimes sang again. Fowler, assured that his guest wasn't in articulo mortis, began to feel irritation. Why the
devil did the guy have to barge in now,, at this particular crucial moment? In fact, where had he come from? It was a
mile to the nearest highway, along a dirt road, and there was no dust on the man's shoes. Moreover, there was
something indefinably disturbing about theтАФlack in his appearance. There was no other word

that fitted so neatly. Village idiots are popularly termed "wanting," and, while there was no question of idiocy here, the
man did seemтАФ

What?

For no reason at all Fowler shivered. The door chimes reminded him of Veronica. He said: "Wait here. You'll be all right.
Just wait. I'll be backтАФ"

There was a question in the soulless eyes.

Fowler looked around. "There're some books on the shelf. Or fix thisтАФ" He pointed to the wall switch. "If you want
anything, call me." On that note of haphazard solicitude he went out, carefully closing the door. After all, he wasn't his
brother's keeper. And he hadn't spent days getting the new house in shape to have his demonstration go haywire
because of an unforseen interruption.

Veronica was waiting on the threshold. "Hello," Fowler said. "Have any trouble finding the place? Come in."

"It sticks up like a sore thumb," she informed him. "Hello. So this is the dream house, is it?"