"Thomas A. Easton - Down on the Truck Farm" - читать интересную книгу автора (Easton Thomas A)

at all sure their fate was so horrible. They were the honey-bums his father prayed he would not join. They
were poor and tattered, but such was the power of the euphoric in the honey they loved that they were
nevertheless carefree and content with their lot. Was that indeed what awaited Jimmy? He didn't think
that honeysuckle wine had that much of a hold on him, though he did love the stuff.

A Roadrunner roared past them, its rider bent low over the extended neck, his face hidden by a globular
helmet. “Next exit,” said Dad, and the highway gave way to a smaller road poorly enough maintained that
in spots, where the turf was thin, the pavement of a generation before showed through. A few more
miles, and they began to see the white-boarded fences of the truck farm. The barns became visible
beyond a grove of trees, and then they could see the iron-barred runs, some of them containing young
trucks. A herd of cattle, mingled Guernseys and Black Angus, milk and meat, grazed a pasture. The
barns grew nearer and the wide doors along their sides became visible, while Jimmy wondered at the
lack of a farmhouse. By the road stood a low concrete building that looked like it must hold only offices.
A truck, its trailer full of grain for feed, was backing into the farm's main drive.

There was no honeysuckle to be seen. If it had ever taken root here, the farm's staff had carefully
eradicated it. Jimmy did not care whether the reason had been to keep the staff or the stock clean. He
did care that it was absent, for he was beginning to crave a sip, just a sip, he told himself.

“Park there,” said Dad. He pointed toward the side of the office building.

Jimmy nosed the Armadon into a space between a Roachster and an antique automobile whose axles
were supported by metal jacks. The antique's paint was protected by a plastic tarpaulin. A medallion, left
visible where the tarp did not cover, identified the car as an Oldsmobile.

As he shut their vehicle down, a door opened in the side of the building. Jimmy caught a glimpse of pastel
walls, glass partitions, and elaborate computer workstations where, he would have guessed if he had
cared, new trucks must be designed. Then he focused on the man stepping toward them. He was tall but
heavy-set, and the roundness of his face was accentuated by a receding hairline.

“Mr. Brane!” He met Jimmy's Dad with a broad smile and an outstretched hand as he stepped from the
Armadon. “This is your boy. I've been looking forward to meeting you both.”

Jimmy scowled. He hadn't cared for patronizing sons of bitches when he was in high school, and he didn't
like them now. He wished he dared to jump back in the Armadon and take off, but.... Honey or no
honey, Dad would make his life miserable for sure. And he didn't really want to disappoint his parents.
He was depressed for loss of his friend, but he did still love them. He supposed he even loved Caleb.

Their host gestured toward the nearest barn. “Call me Mike. Mike Nickers. We can begin the tour in
here.”

A narrow corridor ran down the center of the barn, with wooden doors opening into large bays. A small
window in the nearest of the doors gave Jimmy a glimpse of something large and moving, but before he
could identify it, their guide directed their attention to a large photo on one wall and said, “This is the bus
barn. We've been trying to develop a good long-distance vehicle.” He tapped the photo with an
outstretched finger. “Years ago, they tried to make a Greyhound, but the back wasn't strong enough, and
it didn't have the stamina.”

Despite himself, Jimmy was feeling some interest. “What about the Bernies? They're all over town.”