"Фредерик Браун. Night of the Jabberwock (англ) " - читать интересную книгу автора

earlier than usual. I decided that that called for a drink, here and now.
The bottle in my desk turned out to have enough whisky in it for one
healthy drink or two short ones. I asked Pete if he wanted a snort and he
said no, not yet, he'd wait till he got over to Smiley's, so I treated
myself to a healthy drink, as I'd hoped to be able to do. And it had been
fairly safe to ask Pete; he seldom took one before he was through for the
day, and although my part of the job was done Pete still had almost an
hour's work ahead of him on the mechanical end.
The drink made a warm spot under my belt as I walked over to the window
by the Linotype and stood staring out into the quiet dusk. The lights of Oak
Street flashed on while I stood there. I'd been dreaming what had I been
dreaming?
On the sidewalk across the street Miles Harrison hesitated in front of
Smiley's Tavern as though the thought of a cool glass of beer tempted him. I
could almost feel his mind working: "No, I'm a deputy sheriff of Carmel
County and I have a job to do yet tonight and I don't drink while I'm on
duty. The beer can wait."
Yes, his conscience must have won, because he walked on.
I wonder now although of course I didn't wonder then whether, if he
had known that he would be dead before midnight, he wouldn't have stopped
for that beer. I think he would have. I know I would have, but that doesn't
prove anything because I'd have done it anyway; I've never had a conscience
like Miles Harrison's.
Behind me, at the stone, Pete was putting the final stick of type into
the chase of the front page. He said, "Okay, Doc, she fits. We're in."
"Let the presses roll," I told him.
Just a manner of speaking, of course. There was only one press and it
didn't roll, because it was a Miehle vertical that shuttled up and down. And
it wouldn't even do that until morning. The Clarion is a weekly paper that
comes out on Friday; we put it to bed on Thursday evening and Pete runs it
off the press Friday morning. And it's not much of a run.
Pete asked, "You going over to Smiley's?"
That was a silly question; I always go over to Smiley's on a Thursday
evening and usually, when he's finished locking up the forms, Pete joins me,
at least for a while. "Sure," I told him.
"I'll bring you a stone proof, then," Pete said.
Pete always does that, although I seldom do more than glance at it.
Pete's too good a printer for me ever to catch any important errors on him
and as for minor typographicals, Carmel City doesn't mind them.
I was free and Smiley's was waiting, but for some reason I wasn't in
any hurry to leave. It was pleasant, after the hard work of a Thursday and
don't let that short nap fool you; I had been working to stand there and
watch the quiet street in the quiet twilight, and to contemplate an
intensive campaign of doing nothing for the rest of the evening, with a few
drinks to help me do it.
Miles Harrison, a dozen paces past Smiley's, stopped, turned, and
headed back. Good, I thought, I'll have someone to drink with. I turned away
from the window and put on my suit coat and hat.
I said, "Be seeing you, Pete," and I went down the stairs and out into
the warm summer evening.