"Kuttner, Henry - A Gnome There Was" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kuttner Henry)

A GNOME THERE WAS
Unknown October by Henry Kuttner (1914-1958) and C. L. Moore (1911- )

Tim Crockett should never have sneaked into the mine on Dornsef Mountain. What is winked at in California may have disastrous results in the coal mines of Pennsylvania. Especially when gnomes are involved.
Not that Tim Crockett knew about the gnomes. He was just investigating conditions among the lower classes, to use his own rather ill-chosen words. He was one of a group of southern Californians who had decided that labor needed them. They were wrong. They needed laborЧat least eight hours of it a day.
Crockett, like his colleagues, considered the laborer a combination of a gorilla and The Man with the Hoe, probably numbering the Kallikaks among his ancestors. He spoke fierily of down-trodden minorities, wrote incendiary articles for the groupТs organ, Earth, and deftly maneuvered himself out of entering his fatherТs law office as a clerk. He had, he said, a mission. Unfortunately, he got little sympathy from either the workers or their oppressors.
A psychologist could have analyzed Crockett easily enough. He was a tall, thin, intense-looking young man, with rather beady little eyes, and a nice taste in neckties. All he needed was a vigorous kick in the pants.
But definitely not administered by a gnome!
He was junketing through the country, on his fatherТs money, investigating labor conditions, to the profound annoyance of such laborers as he encountered. It was with this idea in mind that he surreptitiously got into the Ajax coal mineЧor, at least, one shaft of itЧ after disguising himself as a miner and rubbing his face well with black dust. Going down in the lift, he looked singularly untidy in the midst of a group of well-scrubbed faces. Miners look dirty only after a dayТs work.
Domsef Mountain is honeycombed, but not with the shafts of the Ajax Company. The gnomes have ways of blocking their tunnels when humans dig too close. The whole place was a complete confusion to Crockett. He let himself drift along with the others, till they began to work. A filled car rumbled past on its tracks. Crockett hesitated, and then sidled over to a husky specimen who seemed to have the marks of a great sorrow stamped on his face.
УLook,Ф he said, УI want to talk to you.Ф
УInglis?Ф asked the other inquiringly. УViskey. Chin. Vine. Hell.Ф Having thus demonstrated his somewhat incomplete command of English, he bellowed hoarsely with laughter and returned to work, ignoring the baffled Crockett, who turned away to find another victim. But this section of the mine seemed deserted. Another loaded car rumbled past, and Crockett decided to see where it came from. He found out, after banging his head painfully and falling flat at least five times.
It came from a hole in the wall. Crockett entered it, and simultaneously heard a hoarse cry from behind him. The unknown requested Crockett to come back.
УSo I can break your slab-sided neck,Ф he promised, adding a stream of sizzling profanity. УCome outa there!Ф
Crockett cast one glance back, saw a gorillalike shadow lurching after him, and instantly decided that his stratagem had been discovered. The owners of the Ajax mine had sent a strong-arm man to murder himЧor, at least, to beat him to a senseless pulp. Terror lent wings to CrockettТs flying feet. He rushed on, frantically searching for a side tunnel in which he might lose himself. The bellowing from behind re-echoed against the walls. Abruptly Crockett caught a significant sentence clearly.
УЧbefore that dynamite goes off!Ф
It was at that exact moment that the dynamite went off.

Crockett, however, did not know it. He discovered, quite briefly, that he was flying. Then he was halted, with painful suddenness, by the roof. After that he knew nothing at all, till he recovered to find a head regarding him steadfastly.
It was not a comforting sort of headЧnot one at which you would instinctively clutch for companionship. It was, in fact, a singularly odd, if not actually revolting, head. Crockett was too much engrossed with staring at it to realize that he was actually seeing in the dark.
How long had he been unconscious? For some obscure reason Crockett felt that it had been quite a while. The explosion hadЧwhat?
Buried him here behind a fallen roof of rock? Crockett would have felt little better had he known that he was in a used-up shaft, valueless now, which had been abandoned long since. The miners, blasting to open a new shaft, had realized that the old one would be collapsed, but that didnТt matter.
Except to Tim Crockett.
He blinked, and when he reopened his eyes, the head had vanished. This was a relief. Crockett immediately decided the unpleasant thing had been a delusion. Indeed, it was difficult to remember what it had looked like. There was only a vague impression of a turnip-shaped outline, large, luminous eyes, and an incredibly broad slit of a mouth.
Crockett sat up, groaning. Where was this curious silvery radiance coming from? It was like daylight on a foggy afternoon, coming from nowhere in particular, and throwing no shadows. УRadium,Ф thought Crockett, who knew very little of mineralogy.
He was in a shaft that stretched ahead into dimness till it made a sharp turn perhaps fifty feet away. Behind himЧbehind him the roof had fallen. Instantly Crockett began to experience difficulty in breathing. He flung himself upon the rubbly mound, tossing rocks frantically here and there, gasping and making hoarse, inarticulate noises.
He became aware, presently, of his hands. His movements slowed till he remained perfectly motionless, in a half-crouching posture, glaring at the large, knobbly, and surprising objects that grew from his wrists. Gould he, during his period of unconsciousness, have acquired mittens? Even as the thought came to him, Crockett realized that no mittens ever knitted resembled in the slightest degree what he had a right to believe to be his hands. They twitched slightly.
Possibly they were caked with mudЧno. It wasnТt that. His hands hadЧaltered. They were huge, gnarled, brown objects, like knotted oak roots. Sparse black hairs sprouted on their backs. The nails were definitely in need of a manicureЧpreferably with a chisel.
Crockett looked down at himself. He made soft cheeping noises, indicative of disbelief. He had squat bow legs, thick and strong, and no more than two feet longЧless, if anything. Uncertain with disbelief, Crockett explored his body. It had changedЧcertainly not for the better.
He was slightly more than four feet high, and about three feet wide, with a barrel chest, enormous splay feet, stubby thick legs, and no neck whatsoever. He was wearing red sandals, blue shorts, and a red tunic which left his lean but sinewy arms bare. His headЧ Turnip-shaped. The mouthЧYipe! Crockett had inadvertently put his fist clear into it. He withdrew the offending hand instantly, stared around in a dazed fashion, and collapsed on the ground. It couldnТt be happening. It was quite impossible. Hallucinations. He was dying of asphyxiation, and delusions were preceding his death.

Crockett shut his eyes, again convinced that his lungs were laboring for breath. УIТm dying,Ф he said. УI c-canТt breathe.Ф
A contemptuous voice said, УI hope you donТt think youТre breathing air!Ф
УIТm n-notЧФ Crockett didnТt finish the sentence. His eyes popped again. He was hearing things.
He heard it again. УYouТre a singularly lousy specimen of gnome,Ф the voice said. УBut under NidТs law we canТt pick and choose. Still, you wonТt be put to digging hard metals, I can see that. AnthraciteТs about your speed. WhatТre you staring at? YouТre very much uglier than I am.Ф
Crockett, endeavoring to lick his dry lips, was horrified to discover the end of his moist tongue dragging limply over his eyes. He whipped it back, with a loud smacking noise, and managed to sit up. Then he remained perfectly motionless, staring.
The head had reappeared. This time there was a body under it.
УIТm Gru Magru,Ф said the head chattily. УYouТll be given a gnomic name, of course, unless your own is guttural enough. What is it?Ф
УCrockett,Ф the man responded, in a stunned, automatic manner.
УHey?Ф
УCrockett.Ф
УStop making noises like a frog andЧoh, I see. Crockett. Fair enough. Now get up and follow me or IТll kick the pants off you.Ф
But Crockett did not immediately rise. He was watching Gru MagruЧobviously a gnome. Short, squat and stunted, the beingТs figure resembled a bulging little barrel, topped by an inverted turnip. The hair grew up thickly to a peakЧthe root, as it were. In the turnip face was a loose, immense slit of a mouth, a button of a nose, and two very large eyes.
УGet up!Ф Gru Magru said.
This time Crockett obeyed, but the effort exhausted him completely. If he moved again, he thought, he would go mad. It would be just as well. GnomesЧ Gru Magru planted a large splay foot where it would do the most good, and Crockett described an arc which ended at a jagged boulder fallen from the roof. УGet up,Ф the gnome said, with gratuitous bad temper, Уor IТll kick you again. ItТs bad enough to have an outlying prospect patrol, where I might run into a man any time, withoutЧ Up! OrЧФ
Crockett got up. Gru Magru took his arm and impelled him into the depths of the tunnel.
СWell, youТre a gnome now,Ф he said. УItТs the Nid law. Sometimes I wonder if itТs worth the trouble. But I suppose it isЧsince gnomes canТt propagate, and the average population has to be kept up somehow.Ф
УI want to die,Ф Crockett said wildly.
Gru Magru laughed. УGnomes canТt die. TheyТre immortal, till the Day. Judgment Day, I mean.Ф
УYouТre not logical,Ф Crockett pointed out, as though by disproving one factor he could automatically disprove the whole fantastic business. УYouТre either flesh and blood and have to die eventually, or youТre not, and then youТre not real.Ф