Read Online Not This August by C.M. Kornbluth - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: C.M. Kornbluth
Tags: Science-Fiction
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past Gribble, sleeping on the porch, and went upstairs to his bedroom. He did not intend to sleep that night—not while waiting for an unknown person to pick up an atomic-bomb subassembly for use in some insane, foredoomed scheme of sabotage.
He tried to read but could not. He smoked the last of his tobacco in two unwanted pipefuls.
Insane, the whole business! There were supposed to be 5 million occupation troops east of the Mississippi alone. Their own third-rate shopping place, Chiunga Center, was garrisoned by the 449th Soviet Military Government Unit, which, when administrative transport and medical frills were ripped off, turned out to be a reinforced infantry regiment: about one thousand fighting men armed to the teeth.
And what could you do?
Well, you could denounce Rawson and turn his bomb over to the 449th SMGU. You could denounce Betsy Cardew—nit-witted rich girl who used sex and your vestigial pride to unload a deadly menace on you. You could get written up as a patriotic citizen of the North American People’s Democratic Republic, get a life pension as a Hero of Socialist Labor. And then there would be nothing for you to do but cut your throat in self-loathing.
In spite of himself he fell asleep at 3:00 A.M., with the 40-watt bulb shining on his face and the unread book open across his chest.
CHAPTER SEVEN
He woke with a panicky start at eight-thirty. What was wrong? Something was terribly wrong.
At the window he saw the cows turned out to pasture. But they should have been bellowing, unmilked, for an hour or more—
But the milk cans were stacked on the loading platform for the pickup truck. Gribble had milked them! With only a few words from yesterday afternoon to go on he had worked the milking machine and turned the cows out.
And that meant he had been in the barn, where—
Justin dashed downstairs, his heart thudding, and then slowed deliberately to a walk. He found the little man in the yard before the barn scouring the milker and pails. “Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning, Mr. Justin. I don’t know if I did the right thing, but the cows were stamping around and I remembered what you told me—it wasn’t hard.”
“You did exactly the right thing. I couldn’t get to sleep last night. And when I did, I guess I couldn’t wake up. I’m sorry I left it all to you. Have you been in the—kitchen?”
Gribble smiled nervously and shook his head.
“I’ll fix breakfast.”
Justin kept himself, by an effort of will, from walking into the barn, in plain sight of Gribble, and looking to see whether that bale of hay had been disturbed. He turned to the house, started the stove, and cooked oatmeal. Half a pint of withheld butterfat made oatmeal breakfast enough for a morning’s hard work. When it was cooked, he called Gribble, who stopped on the porch apologetically until the door was held open for him.
They ate silently.
“Mind washing up?” Justin asked at last. “I’ll be working in the kitchen garden.” As he left, he latched back the screen door, feeling like a fool.
He was heading not for the garden but for the barn when the chug of a worn-out truck sounded along his road. It was Milkshed arriving ahead of time, he absently supposed, and went over to the loading deck to give a hand with the cans. But it wasn’t the Milkshed truck that rounded the turn. It was a worn blue panel job throbbing and groaning out of all proportion to its size. On the near panel was lettered: Bee-Jay Farm Supplies and Machinery, Washington, Penna .
It stopped by the milk cans and a nondescript driver leaned out. “This the Justin place?”
“Yes. I’m Justin. You have anything for sale, mister?”
“Might let you have some plastic pipe.”
“Got an electric pump to go with it? My spring’s downhill from the barn.”
“Yes, I guess I passed it. Sorry about the pump, but we don’t have them yet. Maybe by next spring, the way things are going.”
“That’s good to hear. You know
He tried to read but could not. He smoked the last of his tobacco in two unwanted pipefuls.
Insane, the whole business! There were supposed to be 5 million occupation troops east of the Mississippi alone. Their own third-rate shopping place, Chiunga Center, was garrisoned by the 449th Soviet Military Government Unit, which, when administrative transport and medical frills were ripped off, turned out to be a reinforced infantry regiment: about one thousand fighting men armed to the teeth.
And what could you do?
Well, you could denounce Rawson and turn his bomb over to the 449th SMGU. You could denounce Betsy Cardew—nit-witted rich girl who used sex and your vestigial pride to unload a deadly menace on you. You could get written up as a patriotic citizen of the North American People’s Democratic Republic, get a life pension as a Hero of Socialist Labor. And then there would be nothing for you to do but cut your throat in self-loathing.
In spite of himself he fell asleep at 3:00 A.M., with the 40-watt bulb shining on his face and the unread book open across his chest.
CHAPTER SEVEN
He woke with a panicky start at eight-thirty. What was wrong? Something was terribly wrong.
At the window he saw the cows turned out to pasture. But they should have been bellowing, unmilked, for an hour or more—
But the milk cans were stacked on the loading platform for the pickup truck. Gribble had milked them! With only a few words from yesterday afternoon to go on he had worked the milking machine and turned the cows out.
And that meant he had been in the barn, where—
Justin dashed downstairs, his heart thudding, and then slowed deliberately to a walk. He found the little man in the yard before the barn scouring the milker and pails. “Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning, Mr. Justin. I don’t know if I did the right thing, but the cows were stamping around and I remembered what you told me—it wasn’t hard.”
“You did exactly the right thing. I couldn’t get to sleep last night. And when I did, I guess I couldn’t wake up. I’m sorry I left it all to you. Have you been in the—kitchen?”
Gribble smiled nervously and shook his head.
“I’ll fix breakfast.”
Justin kept himself, by an effort of will, from walking into the barn, in plain sight of Gribble, and looking to see whether that bale of hay had been disturbed. He turned to the house, started the stove, and cooked oatmeal. Half a pint of withheld butterfat made oatmeal breakfast enough for a morning’s hard work. When it was cooked, he called Gribble, who stopped on the porch apologetically until the door was held open for him.
They ate silently.
“Mind washing up?” Justin asked at last. “I’ll be working in the kitchen garden.” As he left, he latched back the screen door, feeling like a fool.
He was heading not for the garden but for the barn when the chug of a worn-out truck sounded along his road. It was Milkshed arriving ahead of time, he absently supposed, and went over to the loading deck to give a hand with the cans. But it wasn’t the Milkshed truck that rounded the turn. It was a worn blue panel job throbbing and groaning out of all proportion to its size. On the near panel was lettered: Bee-Jay Farm Supplies and Machinery, Washington, Penna .
It stopped by the milk cans and a nondescript driver leaned out. “This the Justin place?”
“Yes. I’m Justin. You have anything for sale, mister?”
“Might let you have some plastic pipe.”
“Got an electric pump to go with it? My spring’s downhill from the barn.”
“Yes, I guess I passed it. Sorry about the pump, but we don’t have them yet. Maybe by next spring, the way things are going.”
“That’s good to hear. You know
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