"Walter M. Miller - The Hoofer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Miller Walter M)

"Yeah. Your son. Come on."
"Say, you gotta son? I bet you gotta son."
"Two kids," said the driver, catching Hogey's bag as it slipped from his shoulder. "Both girls.
"Say, you oughta be home with them kids. Man oughta stick with his family. You oughta g
another job." Hogey eyed him owlishly, wagged a moralistic finger, skidded on the gravel as th
stepped onto the opposite shoulder, and sprawled again.
The driver blew a weary breath, looked down at him, and shook his head. Maybe it'd be kind
to find a constable after all. This guy could get himself killed, wander-ing around loose.
"Somebody supposed to meet you?" he asked, squinting around at the dusty hills.
"Huk!тАФwho, me?" Hogey giggled, belched, and shook his head. "Nope. Nobody knows I
coming. S'prise. I'm supposed to be here a week ago." He looked up at the driver with a pain
expression. "Week late, ya know? Marie's gonna be soreтАФwoo-hoo!тАФis she gonna be sore!" H
waggled his head severely at the ground.
"Which way are you going?" the driver grunted impa-tiently.
Hogey pointed down the side-road that led back into the hills. "Marie's pop's place. You kno
where? 'Bout three miles from here. Gotta walk, I guess."
"Don't," the driver warned. "You sit there by the cul-vert till you get a ride. Okay?"
Hogey nodded forlornly.
"Now stay out of the road," the driver warned, then hurried back across the highway. Momen
later, the atomic battery-driven motors droned mournfully, and the bus pulled away.
Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbing the back of his neck. "Nice people," he said. "Nice bunc
people. All hoofers."
With a grunt and a lurch, he got to his feet, but his legs wouldn't work right. With his tumble
reflexes, he fought to right himself with frantic arm motions, but gravity claimed him, and he we
stumbling into the ditch.
"Damn legs, damn crazy legs!" he cried.
The bottom of the ditch was wet, and he crawled up the embankment with mud-soaked knee
and sat on the shoulder again. The gin bottle was still intact. He had himself a long fiery drink, an
it warmed him deep down. He blinked around at the gaunt and treeless land.
The sun was almost down, forge-red on a dusty horizon. The blood-streaked sky faded in
sulphurous yellow toward the zenith, and the very air that hung over the land seemed full of yello
smoke, the omnipresent dust of the plains.
A farm truck turned onto the side-road and moaned away, its driver hardly glancing at the da
young man who sat swaying on his dufflebag near the culvert. Hogey scarcely noticed the vehic
He just kept staring at the crazy sun.
He shook his head. It wasn't really the sun. The sun, the real sun, was a hateful eye-sizzlin
horror in the dead black pit. It painted everything with pure white pain, and you saw things by t
reflected painlight. The fat red sun was strictly a phoney, and it didn't fool him any. He hated it f
what he knew it was behind the gory mask, and for what it had done to his eyes.
With a grunt, he got to his feet, managed to shoulder the duffle bag, and started off down t
middle of the farm road, lurching from side to side, and keeping his eyes on the rolling distance
Another car turned onto the side-road, honking angrily.
 Hogey tried to turn around to look at it, but he forgot to shift his footing. He staggered an
went down on the pavement. The car's tires screeched on the hot asphalt. Hogey lay there for
moment, groaning. That one had hurt his hip. A car door slammed and a big man with a flor
face got out and stalked toward him, looking angry.
"What the hell's the matter with you, fella?" he drawled. "You soused? Man, you've really got
load."
Hogey got up doggedly, shaking his head to clear it. "Space legs," he prevaricated. "Got spa
legs. Can't stand the gravity."