"Robert Rankin - Brentford 03 - East Of Ealing" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

East of Ealing
Book 3 of the now legendary Brentford Trilogy
Robert Rankin




1
Norman gave his ivory-handled screwdriver a final twist and secured the last screw into the side panel
of the slim brass cylinder. Unclamping it from his vice, he lifted it lovingly by its shining axle, and held
it towards the dust-smeared glass of the kitchenette window. It was a work of wonder and that was for
certain. A mere ten inches in diameter and another one in thickness, the dim light painted a rainbow
corona about its varnished circumference.
Norman carried it carefully across to his cluttered kitchen table and, elbowing aside a confusion of
soiled crockery, placed it upon the twin bracket mountings which had been bolted through both
tablecloth and table. The axle dropped into its mounts with a satisfying click and Norman, hardly
daring to breathe, sought out his can of Three-in-One and applied a glistening bead of oil to either end.
If all his calculations, allied to those of a certain Johann Bessler, later known as Orffyreus, who
had first demonstrated the prototype as long ago as 1712 in Zittau, East Germany, proved ultimately to
be correct, he was even now standing upon the very threshold of yet another earth-shattering
scientific breakthrough.
And all it needed was a breath. Norman leaned low
over the brazen wheel and blew upon its edge. There was a faint click, followed by another and yet
another, and with a beauty, which like all of its strange kind lay firmly within the eye of its beholder,
the polished brass wheel began to rotate slowly. Around and around it went, gathering momentum,
until at last it reached a steady rate. Norman drew out his pocket-watch and rattled it against his ear.
The second hand took to once more sweeping the pitted face of the grandaddy's retirement present.
The polished wheel continued to turn; Norman counted beneath his breath and double-checked with his
watch. Twenty-six revolutions per minute, exactly as old mad Bessler had predicted. Around and
around and around for ever and ever and ever.
A broad, if lopsided, smile travelled where it could over Norman's face. Returning his already failing
watch to its fluff-filled waistcoast pocket, he clapped his hands together and did a silly sort of dance
right there and then upon the worn lino of the grimy kitchenette.
The wheel spun, its former clicking now a dull purr, and Norman thrust a knuckle to his mouth and
chuckled noiselessly. His free hand hovered for a moment above the spinning wheel. If the calculations
were indeed correct then virtually nothing, short of out and out destruction, should actually be able to
halt the wheel's motion. Tentatively, he tapped a forefinger on to the polished surface. The wheel
continued to spin. Gently, he plucked at it with finger and thumb. The wheel showed no signs of
easing up. Norman laid firm hold with both hands
upon the slim cylinder, his grasp skidded away, and the wheel rolled on and on and on.
This time he had cracked it! This time he had most definitely cracked it! The ultimate source of
power. Weighing no more than a couple of pounds, its potential knew no bounds. It could charge
up literally anything and, but for the occasional squirt of Three-in-One, needed next to no maintenance.
Without the kitchenette, the shop door-bell suddenly rang in a customer and Norman dragged
himself away from his spinning masterwork to answer the call of business. As he reached the door
he paused a moment and looked back. Twenty-six revolutions per minute, round and around and
around, for ever and ever and ever. With a final silent chuckle and a theatrical backways kick,
Norman passed through the doorway, leaving his world of magic to emerge into the gloomy reality of
his musty corner-shop.
Before the counter stood one James Pooley, betting man, free-thinker, and bachelor of the