"William Tenn - Generation of Noah" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tenn William)

Generation of Noah
William Tenn

That was the day Plunkett heard his wife screaming guardedly to their youngest boy.
He let the door of the laying house slam behind him, forgetful of the nervously feeding hens. She had,
he realized, cupped her hands over her mouth so that only the boy would hear.
"Saul! You, Saul! Come back, come right back this instant. Do you want your fa-ther to catch you
out there on the road? Saul!"
The last shriek was higher and clearer, as if she had despaired of attracting the boy's attention
without at the same time warning the man.
Poor Ann!
Gently, rapidly, Plunkett shh'd his way through the bustling and hungry hens to the side door. He
came out facing the brooder run and broke into a heavy, unathletic trot.
He heard the other children clatter out of the feed house. Good! They have the responsibility after
Ann and me, Plunkett told himself. Let them watch and learn again.
"Saul!" his wife's voice shrilled unhappily. "Saul, your father's coming!"
Ann came out of the front door and paused. "Elliot," she called at his back as he leaped over the
flush well-cover. "Please, I don't feel well."
A difficult pregnancy, of course, and in her sixth month. But that had nothing to do with Saul. Saul
knew better.
At the last frozen furrow of the truck garden Plunkett gave himself a moment to gather the necessary
air for his lungs. Years ago, when Von Rundstedt's Tigers roared through the Bulge, he would have been
able to dig a foxhole after such a run. Now, he was badly winded. Just showed you: such a short
distance from the far end of the middle chicken house to the far end of the vegetable gardenтАФmerely
crossing four acresтАФand he was winded. And consider the practice he'd had.
He could just about see the boy idly lifting a stick to throw for the dog's pleasure. Saul was in the
further ditch, well past the white line his father had painted across the road.
"Elliot," his wife began again. "He's only six years old. HeтАФ"
Plunkett drew his jaws apart and let breath out in a bellyful of sound. "Saul! Saul Plunkett!" he
bellowed. "Start running!"
He knew his voice had carried. He clicked the button on his stopwatch and threw his right arm up,
pumping his clenched fist.
The boy had heard the yell. He turned, and, at the sight of the moving arm that meant the stopwatch
had started, he dropped the stick. But, for the fearful moment, he was too startled to move.
Eight seconds. He lifted his lids slightly. Saul had begun to run. But he hadn't picked up speed, and
Rusty skipping playfully between his legs threw him off his stride.
Ann had crossed the garden laboriously and stood at his side, alternately staring over his jutting
elbow at the watch and smiling hesitantly sidewise at his face. She shouldn't have come out in her thin
housedress in November. But it was good for Ann, too. Plunkett kept his eyes stolidly on the
unemotional second hand.
One minute forty.
He could hear the dog's joyful barks coming closer, but as yet there was no echo of sneakers
slapping the highway. Two minutes. He wouldn't make it.
 The old bitter thoughts came crowding back to Plunkett. A father timing his six-year-old son's speed
with the best watch he could afford. This, then, was the scientific way to raise children in Earth's most
enlightened era. Well, it was scientific...in keep-ing with the latest discoveries...
Two and a half minutes. Rusty's barks didn't sound so very far off. Plunkett could hear the desperate
pad-pad-pad of the boy's feet. He might make it at that. If only he could!
"Hurry, Saul," his mother breathed. "You can make it."
Plunkett looked up in time to see his son pound past, his jeans already darkened with perspiration.