"Robert Rankin - Brentford 04 - The Sprouts Of Wrath" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

whose immediate thought was that the ancient was adding the science of bicycle maintenance to his seemingly
endless list of accomplishments, gratefully acceded to his request.
It was therefore much to his surprise when arriving on the morrow he received for his troubles a large piece of
parchment upon which was penned thirteen stanzas of archaic English. These read like the prophecies of
Nostradamus and to John made precisely the same amount of sense. The Professor told him that, should he
follow these requirements to the letter, he would find things very much to his advantage. Omally perused the
parchment, his forehead furrowed with doubt. Whilst he was so doing, the Professor added that regular oiling was
a necessity as was a change of brake blocks, a realignment of the dynamo and a set of new mudguards.
Whenever possible the bicycle was to be left facing west when parked, sunshine being preferable to shade, that
it was never to be left alone at night, but always in the company of another wheeled conveyance (or at the very least
a lawn mower), that it was to be repainted vermilion and referred to at all future times by the name 'Marchant'.
Omally peered furtively at the old man. This was a wind-up surely, in fact the wind-up to end all wind-ups.

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The Professor, who read not only John's aura but also his thoughts, raised a finger, slim as a twig, and said simply,
Trust me, John.'
Omally left Professor Slocombe's that day leading Marchant thoughtfully by the handlebar. It really didn't
seem worth the candle. It would probably be better simply to dump the old bike and acquire another (Omally being one
of those who considered an unpadlocked bicycle public property). But his trust in the Professor was implicit, so before
he was half-way to the Flying Swan he had resigned himself that he would take up the challenge.
The parchment proved a great attraction to the lunch-time patrons and a distinguished panel of semanticists, Old
Pete, Norman and Omally's closest friend Jim Pooley, set about its translation with relish. As the instructions were
teased into twentieth-century Brentonian, their curious nature became apparent. Stanza nine, lines three and four,
proved of particular interest:
Ne'er Widdershins must Marchant go lest peril and ill luck bestow.
Old Pete, who had recently joined the local coven, picked up on it almost at once. 'It means,' said he, 'that the bike
must never be ridden around left-hand corners, on fear of terrible consequence.'
Omally buried his face in his hands. To plan one's route whilst only ever turning to the right was not only ludi-
crous, it was downright dangerous. Especially upon drunken nights when the gutter led the way home.
But power to the Irishman's elbow, he had persevered, and many a late-night reveller was left to wonder at the
madman upon the vermilion cycle crying, 'Homeward Marchant!' as he drove about in ever-decreasing circles,
eventually to vanish like the Oozalem bird of ancient myth into his own back passage.
They had been difficult times and no mistake, but now as Omally pedalled effortlessly up the steep incline of
Sprite Street, they were no more than memories. He and

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Marchant were en rapport, as the garlic eaters will have it, and the degree of this was remarkable in the extreme.
For, to the trained observer, skilled in such matters as bicycle propulsion, watching the cyclist's easy motion as
he crested the hill, one thing would have been readily apparent: As man and bike moved in fluid harmony, one
vital something - hitherto considered an essential prerequisite to bicycledom - was missing. The pedals turned,
the wheels spinned, but nothing whatever moved between the chainwheel and the Sturmey Archer cog . . .
Omally's bicycle Marchant did not have a chain.




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 4

Ted McCready blew his whistle, waved his flag and watched with absolutely no interest at all as the early train