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

spell.

"Poor Verna," he said at last. "It doesn't say whether she was stuck with the court costs. Do you happen
to know-"

"No," said the potter. "All I know is what was on the plate, and




how to revive you. The dentist accidentally gave you a dose of what we call Levantman shock
anesthesia. We haven't used it for centuries; it was powerful, but too dangerous."

"Centuries . . ." brooded the man. "Centuries . . . I'll bet Sam swindled her out of her eyeteeth. Poor
Verna. How long ago was it? What year is this?"

Hawkins shrugged. "We call it 7-B-936. That's no help to you. It takes a long time for these metals to
oxidize."

"Like that movie," Barlow muttered. "Who would have thought it? Poor Verna!" He blubbered and
sniffled, reminding Hawkins powerfully of the fact that he had been found under a flat rock.
Almost angrily, the potter demanded, "How many children did you have?"

"None yet," sniffed Barlow. "My first wife didn't want them. But Verna wants one-wanted one-but we're
going to wait until-we were going to wait until-"

"Of course," said the potter, feeling a savage desire to tell him off, blast him to hell and gone for his
work. But he choked it down. There was The Problem to think of; there was always The Problem to
think of, and this poor blubberer might unexpectedly supply a clue. Hawkins would have to pass him on.

"Come along," Hawkins said. "My time is short."

Barlow looked up, outraged. "How can you be so unfeeling? I'm a human being like-"

The Los Angeles-Chicago "rocket" thundered overhead and Barlow broke off in mid-complaint.
"Beautiful!" he breathed, following it with his eyes. "Beautiful!"

He climbed out of the vault, too interested to be pained by its roughness against his infantile skin. "After
all," he said briskly, "this should have its sunny side. I never was much for reading, but this is just like one
of those stories. And I ought to make some money out of it, shouldn't I?" He gave Hawkins a shrewd
glance.

"You want money?" asked the potter. "Here." He handed over a fistful of change and bills. "You'd better
put my shoes on. It'll be about a quarter mile. Oh, and you're-nh, modest?-yes, that was the word.
Here." Hawkins gave him his pants, but Barlow was excitedly counting the money.

"Eighty-five, eighty-six-and it's dollars, too! I thought it'd be credits or whatever they call them. 'E
Pluribus Ununi' and 'Liberty'-just