"Henry Kuttner (as Lewis Padgett) - The Twonky UC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kuttner Henry)

Later, over coffee and cigarettes, Martha glanced at her wrist watch. “Nearly train time. I’d better finish packing. The dishes—”
“I’ll do ‘em.” Kerry wandered after his wife into the bedroom and made motions of futile helpfulness. After a while, he carried the bags down to the car. Martha joined him, and they~headed for the depot.

The train was on time. Half an hour after it had pulled out, Kerry drove the car back into the garage, let himself into the house and yawned mightily. He was tired. Well, the dishes, and then beer and a book in bed.
With a puzzled look at the radio, he entered the kitchen and did things with water and soap chips. The hall phone rang. Kerry wiped his hands on a dish towel and answered it.
It was Mike Fitzgerald, who taught psychology at the University.
“Hiya, Fitz.”
“Hiya. Martha gone?”
“Yeah. I just drove her to the train.”
“Feel like talking, then? I’ve got some pretty good Scotch. Why not run over and gab a while?”
“Like to,” Kerry said, yawning again, “but I’m dead. Tomorrow’s a big day. Rain check?”
“Sure. I just finished correcting papers, and felt the need of sharpening my mind. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Wait a minute.” Kerry put down the phone and looked over his shoulder, scowling. Noises were coming from the kitchen. What the hell!
He went along the hall and stopped in the doorway, motionless and staring. The radio was washing the dishes.
After a while he returned to the phone. Fitzgerald said, “Something?”
“My new radio,” Kerry told him carefully. “It’s washing the dishes.”
Fitz didn’t answer for a moment. His laugh was a bit hesitant. “Oh?”
“I’ll call you back,” Kerry said, and hung up. He stood motionless for a while, chewing his lip. Then he walked back to the kitchen and paused to watch.
The radio’s back was toward him. Several limber tentacles were manipulating the dishes, expertly sousing them in hot, soapy water, scrubbing them with the little mop, dipping them into the rinse water, and then stacking them neatly in the metal rack. Those whip-lashes were the only sign of unusual activity. The legs were apparently solid.
“Hey!” Kerry said.
There was no response.
He sidled around till he could examine the radio more closely. The tentacles emerged from a slot under one of the dials. The electric cord was dangling. No juice, then. But what— Kerry stepped back and fumbled out a cigarette. Instantly the radio
turned, took a match from its container on the stove, and walked forward. Kerry blinked, studying the legs. They couldn’t be wood. They were bending as the . . . the thing moved, elastic as rubber. The radio had a peculiar sidling motion unlike anything else on earth.
It lit Kerry’s cigarette and went back to the sink, where it resumed the dishwashing.

Kerry phoned Fitzgerald again. “I wasn’t kidding. I’m having hallucinations or something. That damned radio just lit a cigarette for me.”
“Wait a minute—” Fitzgerald’s voice sounded undecided. “This is a gag—eh?”
“No. And I don’t think it’s a hallucination, either. It’s up your alley. Can you run over and test my knee-jerks?”
“All right,” Fitz said. “Give me ten minutes. Have a drink ready.”
He hung up, and Kerry, laying the phone back into its cradle, turned to see the radio walking out of the kitchen toward the living room. Its square, boxlike contour was subtly horrifying, like some bizarre sort of hobgoblin. Kerry shivered.
He followed the radio, to find it in its former place, motionless and impassive. He opened the doors, examining the turntable, the phonograph arm, and the other buttons and gadgets. There was nothing apparently unusual. Again he touched the legs. They were not wood, after all. Some plastic, which seemed quite hard. Or— maybe they were wood, after all. It was difficult to make certain, without damaging the finish. Kerry felt a natural reluctance to use a knife on his new console.
He tried the radio, getting local stations without trouble. The tone was good—unusually good, he thought. The phonograph— He picked up Halvorsen’s “Entrance of the Boyards” at random
and slipped it into place, closing the lid. No sound emerged. Investigation proved that the needle was moving rhythmically along the groove, but without audible result. Well?
Kerry removed the record as the doorbell rang. It was Fitzgerald, a gangling, saturnine man with a leathery, wrinkled face and a tousled mop of dull-gray hair. He extended a large, bony hand.
“Where’s my drink?”
“‘Lo, Fitz. Come ill the kitchen. I’ll mix. Highball?”
“Highball.”
“0. K.” Kerry led the way. “Don’t drink it just yet, though. I want to show you my new combination.”
“The one that washes dishes?” Fitzgerald asked. “What else does it do?”
Kerry gave the other a glass. “It won’t play records.”
“Oh, well. A minor matter, if it’ll do the housework. Let’s take a look at it.” Fitzgerald went into the living room, selected “Afternoon of a Faun,” and approached the radio. “It isn’t plugged in.”
“That doesn’t matter a bit,” Kerry said wildly.
“Batteries?” Fitzgerald slipped the record in place and adjusted the switches. “Now we’ll see.” He beamed triumphantly at Kerry. “Well? It’s playing now.” 7
It was.
Kerry said, “Try that Halvorsen piece. Here.” He handed the disk to Fitzgerald, who pushed the reject switch and watched the lever arm lift.
But this time the phonograph refused to play. It didn’t like “Entrance of the Boyards.”
“That’s funny,” Fitzgerald grunted. “Probably the trouble’s with the record. Let’s try another.”
There was no trouble with “Daphnis and Chloe.” But the radio silently rejected the composer’s “Bolero.”

Kerry sat down and pointed to a near-by chair. “That doesn’t prove anything. Come over here and watch. Don’t drink anything yet. You, uh, you feel perfectly normal?”