"Eric Frank Russell - Mechanical Mice2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Russell Eric Frank)

"Because history, past or future, permits no glaring paradox. Because, having snatched this
battery from the twenty-fifth century, I am recorded in that age as the twentieth-century
inventor of the thing. They've made a mild improvement to it in those five centuries, but that
improvement was automatically withheld from me. Future history is as fixed and unalterable
by those of the present time as is the history of the past."
"Then," I demanded, "explain to me that complicated con┬мtraption which does nothing but
say bz-z-z."
"Damn it" he said, with open ire, "that's just what's mak┬мing me crazy! It can't be a paradox,
it just can't." Then, more carefully, "So it must be a seeming paradox."
"O.K. You tell me how to market a seeming paradox, and the commercial uses thereof, and
I'll give it a first-class write up."
Ignoring my sarcasm, he went on, "I tried to probe the fu┬мture as far as human minds can
probe. I saw nothing, nothing but the vastness of a sterile floor upon which sat a queer
machine, gleaming there in silent, solitary majesty. Somehow, it seemed aware of my
scrutiny across the gulf of countless ages. It held my attention with a power almost hypnotic.
For more than a day, for a full thirty hours, I kept that vision without losing itтАФthe longest time
I have ever kept a future scene."
"Well?"
"I drew it. I made complete drawings of it, performing the task with all the easy confidence of
a trained machine draughtsman. Its insides could not be seen, but somehow they came to
me, somehow I knew them. I lost the scene at four o'clock in the morning, finding myself with
masses of very complicated drawings, a thumping head, heavy-lidded eyes, and a
half-scared feeling in my heart." He was silent for a short time. "A year later I plucked up
courage and started to build the thing I had drawn. It cost me a hell of a lot of time and hell of
a lot of money. But I did itтАФit's finished."
"And all it does is buzz," I remarked, with genuine sympa┬мthy.
"Yes," he sighed, doubtfully.
There was nothing more to be said. Burman gazed moodily at the wall, his mind far, far
away. I fiddled aimlessly with the copper earpieces of the psychophone. My imagination, I
reckoned, was as good as anyone's, but for the life of me I could neither imagine nor
suggest a profitable market for a metal coffin filled with watchmaker's junk. No, not even if it
did make odd noises.
A faint, smooth whir came from the coffin. It was a new sound that swung us round to face it
pop-eyed. Whir-r-r! it went again. I saw finely machined wheels spin behind the window in its
front.
"Good heavens!" said Burman.
Bz-z-z! Whir-r! Click! The whole affair suddenly slid sidewise on its hidden casters.

The devil you know isn't half so frightening as the devil you don't. I don't mean that this
sudden demonstration of life and motion got us scared, but it certainly made us leery, and
our hearts put in an extra dozen bumps a minute. This cof┬мfin-thing was, or might be, a devil
we didn't know. So we stood there, side by side, gazing at it fascinatedly, feeling
apprehensive of we knew not what.
Motion ceased after the thing had slid two feet. It stood there, silent, imperturbable, its front
lenses eyeing us with glassy lack of expression. Then it slid another two feet. Another stop.
More meaningless contemplation. After that, a swifter and farther slide that brought it right
up to the labo┬мratory table. At that point it ceased moving, began to emit varied but
synchronized ticks like those of a couple of sympa┬мthetic grandfather clocks.
Burman said, quietly, "Something's going to happen!"
If the machine could have spoken it would have taken the words right out of his mouth. He'd