"Norman Spinrad - Age Of Invention" - читать интересную книгу автора (Spinrad Norman)

my latest!"

On the nearest wall of the cave, there was this big blob of bearfat. In the middle of it was this
small piece of bison chip. Red and green and brown plant stains surrounded this. It smelled as
good as it looked.

"Uh . . . interesting, . . ." I said.

"Like a masterpiece, baby," Roach said proudly. "I call it The Soul of Man."

"Uh . . . The Sole of Man? Er . . . it does sort of look like a foot. "

"No, no, man! Soul, not sole!"

"But, Roach, spelling hasn't been invented yet."




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"Sorry. I forgot."

"Anyway," I said, trying to make him feel a little better, "it's very Artistic." (Whatever that
meant.)

"Thanks, baby," Roach said sulkily.

"What's the matter, Roach?" I asked. He really looked awful.

"We haven't eaten in a week."

"Why don't you go out and kill a bear or something?" I suggested.

"I don't have the time to waste on hunting," Roach said indignantly. "I must live for Art!"

"It appears that you are dying for Art," I replied. "You can't do very much painting when you are
dead."

"Well, anyway," said Roach, in a very tiny voice, "I'm a pretty lousy hunter in the first place. I
would probably starve even if I spent the whole day hunting. Or maybe a bear would kill me. This
way, I'm at least like starving for a Reason."

I must admit it made a kind of sense. Roach is terribly nearsighted. Also amazingly scrawny. The
original ninety-pound weakling.

"Mmmmmmm . . ." I observed.

"Mmmmmmm . . . what?" asked Roach.