"Theodore Sturgeon - That Low" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sturgeon Theodore)

That Low

By

THEODORE STURGEON



There was a "psychic" operating on Vince Street. Fowler went to see her. Not
that he had any faith in mumbo jumbo: far from it. He had been told that this
Mrs. Hallowell worked along strictly logical lines. That's why he went. He
liked the sound of that, being what he was. He went to her and asked her about
killing himself. She said he couldn't do it. Not "You won't" or "shouldn't".
She said, "You can't."
This Fowler was a failure specialist, in the sense that a man is a carburetor
specialist or a drainage specialist or a nerve specialist. You don't get to be
that kind of specialist without spending a lot of time with carburetors or
sewers or nerves. You don't stay nice and objective about it either. You get
in it up to the elbows, up to the eyeballs. Fowler was a man who knew all that
one man could know about failure. He knew all of the techniques, from the
small social failure of letting his language forget what room of the house his
mouth was in, through his declaration of war on the clock and the calendar (in
all but style he was the latest), to the crowning stupidity of regarding his
opinions as right

THAT Low by Theodore Sturgeon, Copyright 1948 by Popular Publications, Inc.,
(Famous Fantastic Mysteries, October 1948)

purely because they were his opinions. So be had fallen and floundered through
life, never following through, jumping when he should have crept, and lying
down at sprintingtime. He could have written a book on the subject of failure,
except for the fact that if be bad, it might have been a success . . . and be
bated failure. Well, you don't have to love your specialty to be a specialist.
You just have to live with it.
It was understandable, therefore, that he should be impressed by Mrs.
Hallowell's reputation for clarity and logic, for be truly believed that here
was a kindred spirit. He brought his large features and his flaccid handshake
to her and her office, which were cool. The office was Swedish modem and
blond. Mrs. Hallowell was dark-, and said, "Sit down. Your name?"
"Maxwell Fowler."
"Occupation?"
"Engineer."
She glanced up. She had aluminum eyes. "Not a graduate engineer." It was not a
question.
"I would of been," said Fowler, "except for a penny-ante political situation
in the school. There was a fellow-"
"Yes," she said. "Married?"
"I was. You know, the kind that'll kick a man when he's down. She was a--"
"Now, Mr. Fowler. What was it you wanted here?"
"I hear you can foretell the future."