"HalfWorldsMeet-HughRaymond" - читать интересную книгу автора (Raymond Hugh)

The interior of the shack was rough pine, unpainted, but clean. Lined with
shelves, it measured about fifteen by twenty feet and was connected with the
rest of the house with a very small door at one end. The shelves were piled high
with colored bottles of chemicals and under them, at intervals along the walls,
big machines were set on concrete slabs sunk into the earth. Big metal working
machinery, bought and paid for with sweat and blood and tears; machinery
begrudged Randolph by a jealous world that took far more than it gave. He
shrugged his shoulders in the half darkness and smiled a crooked smile. He'd
given it more than it could have given him. Invention after invention to
brighten the world and clean up the dirty corners. It had all been stolen, by
crooked business men and greedy schools. The Professor was a singular man in his
conduct toward the world. He was invariably honest and direct. So his brain work
was stolen and he starved more often than he ate.
Between the machines, which were fed by heavy power cables leading out to the
field where power lines their way up the mountain to the town, were piles of
metal slabs, wires, tools, insulation and more chemicals in cans. Where the
shadows lay, thrown by the feeble light of the kerosene lamp, they loomed dirty
and like a shambles. He didn't care. The roughness of the assemblage of
machinery pleased him. It owed nothing to the outside world. But it was his
baby.
HE SAT IN the darkness for a while and then Martha called him in to supper. They
ate slowly and meditatively and looked at each other with deep love in their
eyes, and sopped huge chunks of bread into the gravy and ate them. As they were
having coffee, the unlocked front door opened and Charley Small came in.
"Evenin' folks," he said Slowly and took off his cap and sat down.
He was a big, lumbering farmer, who had a brain with a razor's edge and nobody
but the Professor to give it something to cut into. He worked during the day at
an iceplant in the town and spent as many of his evenings as he could sitting
with Randolph in his shack helping him fashion strange machines. He had a queer
love for the shiny contraptions turned out by his friend. Somehow, they
signified the outside world to him with all its splendor and glory. He was a
poet, but only the Professor and his wife knew it.
Martha smiled up at him and pushed a chair against the supper table.
"Have some coffee," she said.
Charley sat down and took a newspaper out of the back pocket of his work
overalls and handed it without a word to the Professor. Randolph picked it up,
glanced briefly at the headline and threw it into a corner where reposed stacks
of old papers. They often came in handy for kindling fires in the big brick
stove.
"What's new?" asked Randolph as Martha got up and reached for the big coffee
pot.
Small scratched his thick-thatched head and grunted.
"Nothin' much, Randolph."
"Get that tobacco?"
The big man hitched his pants and brought out a huge package of cut plug.
Randolph reached for it.
"Thanks; don't know what I'd have done without it."
He pushed back his plate and leaned aside while Martha stood over them pouring
coffee. When she'd finished, she walked over to a shabby studio couch, reclined
on it and snapped on a small radio. Presently the strains of a symphony filled