"Walter M. Miller - Dumb Waiter" - читать интересную книгу автора (Miller Walter M)

Walter M Miller
Dumb Waiter

He came riding a battered bicycle down the bullet-scarred highway that wound among the hil
and he whistled a tortuous flight of the blues. Hot August sunlight glistened on his forehead an
sparkled in droplets that collected in his week's growth of blond beard. He wore faded kha
trousers and a ragged shirt, but his clothing was no shabbier than that of the other occasion
travelers on the road. His eyes were half closed against the glare of the road, and his head sway
listlessly to the rhythm of the melancholy song. Distant artillery was rumbling gloomily, and the
were black flecks of smoke in the northern sky. The young cyclist watched with only casu
interest.
The bombers came out of the east. The ram jet fighters thundered upward from the outskirts
the city. They charged, spitting steel teeth and coughing rockets at the bombers. The sky snarl
and slashed at itself. The bombers came on in waves, occasionally loosing an earthward trail
black smoke. The bombers leveled and opened their bays. The bays yawned down at the cit
The bombers aimed. Releases clicked. No bombs fell. The bombers closed their bays and turn
away to go home. The fighters followed them for a time, then returned to land. The big guns f
silent. And the sky began cleaning away the dusky smoke.
The young cyclist rode on toward the city, still whistling the blues. An occasional pedestri
had stopped to watch the battle.
"You'd think they'd learn someday," growled a chubby man at the side of the road. "You'd thi
they'd know they didn't drop anything. Don't they realize they're out of bombs?"
"They're only machines, Edward," said a plump lady who stood beside him. "How can th
know? "
"Well, they're supposed to think. They're supposed to be able to learn."
The voices faded as he left them behind. Some of the wanderers who had been walking towa
the city now turned around and walked the other way. Urbanophiles looked at the city and becam
urbanophobes. Occasionally a wanderer who had gone all the way to the outskirts came trudgin
back. Occasionally a phobe stopped a phile and they talked. Usually the phile became a phob
and they both walked away together. As the young man moved on, the traffic became almo
nonexistent. Several travelers warned him back, but he continued stubbornly. He had come a lon
way. He meant toreturn to the city. Permanently.
He met an old lady on top of a hill. She sat in an antique chair in the center of the highwa
staring north. The chair was light and fragile, of hand-carved cherry wood. A knitting bag lay
the road beside her. She was muttering softly to herself: "Crazy machines! War's over. Cra
machines! Can't quit fightin'. Somebody oughtaтАФ"
He cleared his throat softly as he pushed his bicycle up beside her. She looked at him sharp
with haggard eyes set in a seamy mask.
"Hi!" he called, grinning at her.
She studied him irritably for a moment. "Who're you, boy?" "Name's Mitch Laske
Grandmaw. Hop on behind. 1'11 give you a ride."
"Hm-m-m! I'm going t'other way. You will, too, if y'got any sense."
Mitch shook his head firmly. "I've been going the other way too long. I'm going back, to stay.
"To the city? Haw! You're crazier than them machines." His face fell thoughtful. He kicked
the bike pedal and stared at the ground. "You're right, Grandmaw."
"Right?"
 "MachinesтАФthey aren't crazy. It's just people."
"Go on!" she snorted. She popped her false teeth back in her mouth and chomped them
place. She hooked withered hands on her knees and pulled herself wearily erect. She hoisted t
antique chair lightly to her shoulder and shuffled slowly away toward the south.