"C M Kornbluth - The Marching Morons Collection" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kornbluth C M)

red rust that went whoosh and was sucked into the interior of the mass.

It had been de-aired, thought Hawkins, and there must have been an inner jacket of glass which had
crystallized through the centuries and quietly crumbled at the first clang of his pick. He didn't know what
a vacuum would do to a subject of Levantman shock, but he had hopes, nor did he quite understand
what a real estate dealer was, but it might have something to do with pottery. And anything might have a
bearing on Topic Number One.

He flung his pick out of the trench, climbed out and set off at a dog-trot for his shop. A little rummaging
turned up a hypo and there was a plastic container of salt in the kitchen.




Back at his dig, he chipped for another half hour to expose the juncture of lid and body. The hinges were
hopeless; he smashed them off.

Hawkins extended the telescopic handle of the pick for the best leverage, fitted its point into a deep pit,
set its built-in fulcrum, and heaved. Five more heaves and he could see, inside the vault, what looked like
a dusty marble statue. Ten more and he could see that it was the naked body of Honest John Barlow,
Evanston real estate dealer, uncorrupted by time.
The potter found the apex of the trigeminal nerve with his needle's point and gave him 60 cc.

In an hour Barlow's chest began to pump.

In another hour, he rasped, "Did it work?"

"Did it!" muttered Hawkins.

Barlow opened his eyes and stirred, looked down, turned his hands before his eyes- "I'll sue!" he
screamed. "My clothes! My fingernails!" A horrid

suspicion came over his face and he clapped his hands to his hairless scalp. "My hair!" he wailed. "I'll sue
you for every penny you've got! That release won't mean a damned thing in court-I didn't sign away my
hair and clothes and fingernails!"

"They'll grow back," said Hawkins casually. "Also your epidermis. Those parts of you weren't alive, you
know, so they weren't pre.served like the rest of you. I'm afraid the clothes are gone, though."

"What is this-the University hospital?" demanded Barlow. "I want a phone. No, you phone. Tell my wife
I'm all right and tell Sam Tmmerman-he's my lawyer-to get over here right away. Greenleaf 7-4022.
Ow!" He had tried to sit up, and a portion of his pink skin rubbed against the inner surface of the casket,
which was powdered by the ancient crystallized glass. "What the hell did you guys do, boil me alive? Oh,
you're going to pay for this!"

"You're all right," said Hawkins, wishing now he had a reference book to clear up several obscure terms.
"Your epidermis will start growing immediately. You're not in the hospital. Look here."

He handed Barlow the stainless steel plate that had labeled the casket. After a suspicious glance, the
man started to read. Finishing, he laid the plate carefully on the edge of the vault and was silent for a