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

different faces. Say, is there a catch to this? Are these real, genuine, honest twenty-two-cent dollars like
we had or just wallpaper?"

"They're quite all right, I assure you," said the potter. "I wish you'd come along. I'm in a hurry."

The man babbled as they stumped toward the shop. "Where are we going-The Council of Scientists, the
World Coordinator or something like that?"

"Who? Oh, no. We call them 'President' and 'Congress.' No, that wouldn't do any good at all. I'm just
taking you to see some people."

"I ought to make plenty out of this. Plenty! I could write books. Get some smart young fellow to put it
into words for me and I'll bet I could turn out a best seller. What's the setup on things like that?"

"It's about like that. Smart young fellows. But there aren't any best sellers any more. People don't read
much nowadays. We'll find something equally profitable for you to do."
Back in the shop, Hawkins gave Barlow a suit of clothes, deposited him in the waiting room and called
Central in Chicago. "Take him away," he pleaded. "I have time for one more firing and he blathers and
blathers. I haven't told him anything. Perhaps we should just turn him loose and let him find his own level,
but there's a chance-"

"The Problem," agreed Central. "Yes, there's a chance."

The potter delighted Barlow by making him a cup of coffee with a cube that not only dissolved in cold
water but heated the water to boffing point. Killing time, Hawkins chatted about the "rocket" Barlow had
admired and had to haul himself up short; he had almost told the real estate man what its top speed really
was-almost, indeed, revealed that it was not a rocket.

He regretted, too, that he had so casually handed Barlow a couple of hundred dollars. The man seemed
obsessed with fear that they were worthless since Hawkins refused to take a note or I.O.U. or even a
definite promise of repayment. But Hawkins couldn't go into details, and was very glad when a stranger
arrived from Central.

"Tinny-Peete, from Algeciras," the stranger told him swiftly as the two of them met at the door. "Psychist
for Poprob. Polassigned special overtake Barlow."

"Thank Heaven," said Hawkins. "Barlow," he told the man from the past, "this is Tinny-Peete. He's going
to take care of you and help you make lots of money."

The psychist stayed for a cup of the coffee whose preparation had delighted Barlow, and then
conducted the real estate man down the




corduroy road to his car, leaving the potter to speculate on whether he could at last crack his kilns.

Hawkins, abruptly dismissing Barlow and The Problem, happily picked the chinking from around the