"Theodore Sturgeon - Shottle Bop" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sturgeon Theodore)

SHOTTLE BOP
Unknown February by Theodore Sturgeon (1918- )

I'd never seen the place before, and I lived just down the block and around the corner. I'll e
give you the address, if you like. "The Shottle Bop," between Twentieth and Twenty-first Stre
on Tenth Avenue in New York City. You can find it if you go there looking for it. Might even
worth your while, too.
But you'd better not.
"The Shottle Bop." It got me. It was a small shop with a weather-beaten sign swung from
wrought crane, creaking dismally in the late fall wind. I walked past it, thinking of the engagem
ring in my pocket and how it had just been handed back to me by Audrey, and my mind was
removed from such things as shottle bops. I was thinking that Audrey might have used a gen
term than "useless" in describing me: and her neatly turned remark about my being a "constitutio
psychopathic incompetent" was as uncalled -for as it was spectacular. She must have rea
somewere, balanced as it was by "And I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on ear
which is a notably worn cliche.
"Shottle Bop!" I muttered, and then paused, wondering where I had picked up such od
rhythmic syllables with which to express myself. I'd seen it on that sign, of course, and it
caught my eye. "And what," I asked myself, "might be a Shottle Bop?" Myself replied promp
"Dunno. Toddle back and have a look." So toddle I did, back along the east side of Ten
wondering what manner of man might be running such an establishment in pursuance of what k
of business. I was enlightened on the second point by a sign in the window, all but obscured by
dust and ashes of ap-parent centuries, which read:

WE SELL BOTTLES

There was another line of smaller print there. I rubbed at the crusted glass with my sleeve
finally was able to make out.

With things in them.

Just like that:

WE SELL BOTTLES
With things in them.

Well of course I went in. Sometimes very delightful things come in bottles, and the way I w
feeling, I could stand a little delighting.
"Close it!" shrilled a voice, as I pushed through the door. The voice came from a shimmer
egg adrift in the air behind the counter, low-down. Peering over, I saw that it was not an egg at
but the bald pate of an old man who was clutching the edge of the counter, his scrawny bo
streaming away in the slight draft from the open door, as if he were made of bubbles. A m
startled, I kicked the door with my heel. He immediately fell on his face, and then scrambled smi
to his feet.
"Ah, it's so good to see you again," he rasped.
I think his vocal cords were dusty, too. Everything else here was. As the door swung to, I fel
if I were inside a great dusty brain that had just closed its eyes. Oh yes, there was light enough.
it wasn't the lamp light and it wasn't daylight. It was likeтАФlike light reflected from the cheeks of p
people. Can't say I enjoyed it much.
"What do you mean, `again'?" I asked irritably. "You never saw me before."