"Raymond, Hugh - Power" - читать интересную книгу автора (Raymond Hugh)

was the secret of that power.
"Darling," I said suddenly, "sometimes I wish it hadn't been you who discovered
the secret of atomic power. It makes you seem utterly precious and above
men--and so much like a goddess."
"Hush, Karl," she admonished. "You know as well as I that the secret of my
discovery must remain secret. These walls undoubtedly develop ears in times like
these. And seriously," she continued, "do you really think those things matter
to me? I fell in love with Karl Brecker, not a cold mass of machinery. All my
life I've had a drive to do something--to create. I wanted to work with my hands
as a little girl. I remember how your father always tells about my escapades
when our families were neighbors for a while and you were at military school?
Homemade wagons and electric motors and then college and then more and more of
that drive to some end--and suddenly that end came--and you came too."
I slipped a cordial slowly.
"But you're always in danger as long as the possibility exists of the discovery
becoming public knowledge."
"It must become public knowledge," she cried, her eyes wide and frightened, "but
only when I am sure that it can be entrusted to safe hands." A sudden practical
look gleamed in her eyes. "But don't worry. For the past quarter-century, at
least one claim has been made for the discovery of atomic power per year. I
think I'm safe. The newspaper boys think I'm a crackpot. Remember the article in
the Times: 'Pulchritudinous Scientist Claims Discovery of Pulverizing Power'?"
She laughed heartily at the memory. "I came in for quite a beating there. Lucky
I didn't make a comeback. They might have believed me."
ACROSS THE crowded room a televisor began to blare.
"It is reported by officials in the State of California that riots have broken
out in a dozen cities. Power lines are down and San Francisco is in the hands of
a self-appointed Citizens Committee for Public Safety." The smooth, honeyed
voice went on to relate the details of endlessly similar occurrences throughout
the country.
I almost enjoyed it, watching the dancers and diners writhe. Most of them were
rich wastrels whose whole livelihood depended upon the pacification of just the
people who were conducting the rioting. Heavily upholstered dowagers sniffed
uneasily as the voice continued to flow into the great room. Young things in
slinky evening dress glanced apprehensively toward the windows where the noises
of the street fighting were rising in a slow but steady crescendo.
The voice ceased. An orchestra from New Orleans began playing to us three
thousand miles away. Faces brightened. Bravado mounted. Soon the wholesale
quaffing of champagne continued.
A waiter approached.
"Will you have dinner now, sir?" he asked timidly. He was used to Anna's and my
own idiosyncrasies, such as omitting the cocktail before dinner and substituting
for it a sweet cordial.
I gave the waiter my order. He was about to go, when suddenly he turned again to
us and said apologetically, "l'd almost forgotten, sir. There's a Mr. Bittsworth
who would like to see you. He's over at the door, sir." And Tiffins pointed
across the dimly lit room to a tall and portly figure leaning against the door
leading to the hotel lobby.
"Expecting anybody?" I asked Anna.
She shook her head in the negative.