"Campbell, John W Jr - Who Goes There" - читать интересную книгу автора (Campbell John W Jr)

McReady picked a barbituate hopefully. Barclay and Van Wall went with him. One man never went anywhere alone in Big Magnet.


Ralsen had his sledge put away, and the physicists had moved off the table, the poker game broken up when they got back. Clark was putting out the food. The click
of spoons and the muffled sounds of eating were the only sign of life in the room. There were no words spoken as the three returned; simply all eyes focused on them
questioningly, while the jaws moved methodically.


McReady stiffened suddenly. Kinner was screeching out a hymn in a hoarse, cracked voice. He looked wearily at Van Wall with a twisted grin and shook his head. "Hu-uh."


Van Wall cursed bitterly, and sat down at the table. "We'll just plumb have to take that till his voice wears out. He can't yell like that forever."
"He's got a brass throat and a cast-iron larynx," Norris declared savagely. "Then we could be hopeful, and suggest he's one of our friends. In that case he could go
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on renewing his throat till doomsday."
Silence clamped down. For twenty minutes they ate without a word. Then Connant jumped up with an angry violence. "You sit as still as a bunch of graven images.
You don't say a word, but oh, Lord, what expressive eyes you've got. They roll around like a bunch of glass marbles spilling down a table. They wind and blink
and stare -and whisper things. Can you guys look somewhere else for a change, please?


"Listen, Mac, you're in charge here. Let's run movies for the rest of the night. We've been saving those reels to make 'em last. Last for what? Who is it's going
to see those last reels, eh? Let's see 'em while we can, and look at something other than each other."


"Sound idea, Connant. I, for one, am quite willing to change this in any way I can."
"Turn the sound up loud, Dutton. Maybe you can drown out the hymns," Clark suggested.
"But don't," Norris said softly, "don't turn off the lights altogether."
"The lights will be out." McReady shook his head. "We'll show all the cartoon movies we have. You won't mind seeing the old cartoons, will you?"


"Goody goody -I'm just in the mood." McReady turned to look at the speaker, a lean, lanky, New Englander, by the name of Caldwell. Caldwell was stuffing his
pipe slowly, a sour eye cocked up to McReady.


The bronze giant was forced to laugh. "O. K., Bart, you win. Maybe we aren't quite in the mood for Popeye and trick ducks, but it's something."


"Let's play Classifications," Caldwell suggested slowly. "Or maybe you call it Guggenheim. You draw lines on a piece of paper, and put down classes of things -like
animals, you know. One for 'H' and one for 'U' and so on. Like 'Human' and 'Unknown' for instance. I think that would be a hell of a lot more than movies.
Maybe somebody's got a pencil that he can draw lines with, draw lines between the 'U' animals and the 'H' animals for instance."


"McReady's trying to find that kind of a pencil," Van Wall answered quietly, "but we've got three kinds of animals here, you know. One that begins with 'M. ' We
don't want any more."


"Mad ones, you mean. Uh-huh. Clark, I'll help you with those pans so we can get our little peep-show going." Caldwell got up slowly.