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

"And I hope I see..." Plunkett twisted around to face the front window as an old station wagon
bumped over the ruts in his driveway. "Say, Nat, what do you know? Charlie Whiting just drove up. Isn't
this Sunday?"
"Yeah. He hit my place early, too. Some sort of political meeting in town and he wants to make it.
It's not enough that the diplomats and generals are practically glar-ing into each other's eyebrows this
time. A couple of local philosophers are impatient with the slow pace at which their extinction is
approaching, and they're getting to-gether to see if they can't hurry it up some."
"Don't be bitter," Plunkett smiled.
"Here's praying at you. Regards to Ann, Plunk."
Plunkett cradled the receiver and ambled downstairs. Outside, he watched Charlie Whiting pull the
door of the station wagon open on its one desperate hinge.
"Eggs stowed, Mr. Plunkett," Charlie said. "Receipt signed. Here. You'll get a check Wednesday."
"Thanks, Charlie. Hey, you kids get back to your books. Go on, Herbie. You're having an English
quiz tonight. Eggs still going up, Charlie?"
"Up she goes." The old man slid onto the crackled leather seat and pulled the door shut deftly. He
bent his arm on the open window. "Heh. And every time she does I make a little more off you survivor
fellas who are too scairt to carry 'em into town yourself."
"Well, you're entitled to it," Plunkett said, uncomfortably. "What about this meet-ing in town?"
"Bunch of folks goin' to discuss the conference. I say we pull out. I say we walk right out of the dern
thing. This country never won a conference yet. A million con-ferences the last few years and everyone
knows what's gonna happen sooner or later. Heh. They're just wastin' time. Hit 'em first, I say."
"Maybe we will. Maybe they will. OrтАФmaybe, Charlie, a couple of different na-tions will get what
looks like a good idea at the same time."
 Charlie Whiting shoved his foot down and ground the starter. "You don't make sense. If we hit 'em
first how can they do the same to us? Hit 'em firstтАФhard enoughтАФand they'll never recover in time to hit
us back. That's what I say. But you survivor fellasтАФ" He shook his white head angrily as the car shot
away.
"Hey!" he yelled, turning into the road. "Hey, look!"
Plunkett looked over his shoulder. Charlie Whiting was gesturing at him with his left hand, the
forefinger pointing out and the thumb up straight.
"Look, Mr. Plunkett," the old man called. "Boom! Boom! Boom!" He cackled hysterically and
writhed over the steering wheel.
Rusty scuttled around the side of the house and after him, yipping frantically in ancient canine
tradition.
Plunkett watched the receding car until it swept around the curve two miles away. He stared at the
small dog returning proudly.
Poor Whiting. Poor everybody, for that matter, who had a normal distrust of crack-pots.
How could you permit a greedy old codger like Whiting to buy your produce, just so you and your
family wouldn't have to risk trips into town?
Well, it was a matter of having decided years ago that the world was too full of people who were
convinced that they were faster on the draw than anyone elseтАФand the other fellow was bluffing anyway.
People who believed that two small boys could pile up snowballs across the street from each other and
go home without having used them, people who discussed the merits of concrete fences as opposed to
wire guard-rails while their automobiles skidded over the cliff. People who were righteous. People who
were apathetic.
It was the last group, Plunkett remembered, who had made him stop buttonhol-ing his fellows at
last. You got tired of standing around in a hair shirt and pointing ominously at the heavens. You got to the
point where you wished the human race well, but you wanted to pull you and yours out of the way of its
tantrums. Survival for the individual and his family, you thoughtтАФ
Clang-ng-ng-ng-ng!