Not This August

Not This August Read Online Free PDF Page B

Book: Not This August Read Online Free PDF
Author: C.M. Kornbluth
Tags: Science-Fiction
have you represented the Red Army?”
    Croley said: “He wanted a central place. Somebody steady.” And that was supposed to dispose of that. O.K., you skunk, Justin thought. Wait until my two traitorous friends blow the whistle on you . When the Bradens finish telling the Reds all about Floyd C. Croley, Floyd C. Croley will be very small potatoes around these parts, or possibly Siberia. And aloud: “You sold me a dog, Mr. Croley. Look at this crumby thing.”
    He slapped down the two broken halves of the cheap cast pump rod. Croley picked them up, turned them over in his hands, and put them down again. “Never guaranteed it,” he said.
    “For twelve-fifty it shouldn’t break on the first stroke, Mr. Croley. I need a pump rod and I insist on a replacement.”
    Croley picked the pieces up again and examined them minutely. He said at last: “Allow you ten dollars on a fifteen-dollar rod. Steel. No coupons.”
    And that, Justin realized, was as good a deal as he’d ever get from the old snake. Too disgusted to talk, he slapped down a ten-dollar bill. Croley took it, produced another rod, and a queer-looking five-dollar bill in change. The portrait was of a hot-eyed young man identified by the little ribbon as John Reed. Instead of “The United States of America,” it said: “The North American People’s Democratic Republic.”
    Justin’s voice broke as he yelled: “What are you trying to put over, Croley? Give me a real bill, damn you!”
    Croley shrugged patiently. A take-it-or-leave-it shrug. He condescended to explain: “He bought gas. It’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for me. Or you.” And turned away to fiddle with the rack in which he kept the credit books of his customers.
    Speechless, Justin rammed the phony bill into his pocket, picked up the rod, and walked away. As he opened the door, the old man’s voice came sharply: “Justin.”
    He turned. Croley said: “Watch your mouth, Justin.” He jerked his thumb at the announcement. (“… representative is FLOYD C. CROLEY. The weapons…”) He went back to his credit books as Justin stared incredulously, torn between laughter and disgust.
    He walked out and across the Lehigh tracks. Nobody seemed to be in town; he was in for a four-mile walk, mostly uphill, to his place. The cows would be milked late—he quickened his pace.
    At the highway a couple of Russian soldiers beside a parked jeep were just finishing erecting a roadside sign—blue letters on white, steel backing, steel post, fired enamel front. They hadn’t rushed that out in six days. That sign had been waiting in a Red Army warehouse for this day, waiting perhaps twenty years. It said: “CHECK POINT 200 YARDS AHEAD. ALL CIVILIAN VEHICLES STOP FOR INSPECTION.” That would be the old truck-weighing station, reactivated as a road block.
    The Russians were a corporal and a private, both of the tall, blond, Baltic type. They had a slung tommy gun apiece. He said: “Hi, boys.”
    The private grinned, the corporal scowled and said: “ Nye ponimayoo . Not per-mitten.”
    He wanted to say something witty and cutting, something about sourpusses, or the decadent plutocrat contaminating the pure proletarian, or how the corporal might make sergeant if his English were better. He looked at the tommy guns instead, shrugged, and walked on. Yes, he was scared. With the vivid imagination of an artist he could see the slugs tearing him. So the rage against Croley festered still, and the taste of defeat was still sour in his mouth. And he still had four uphill miles to walk to milk those loathesome cows of his.
    By nine that night he was thinking of starting to work on Mr. Konreid’s brandy. The current was on and, according to his electric clock, steady. He had lost the radio habit during the silent years. There was now apparently only one station on the air and it offered gems from Mademoiselle Modiste . He didn’t want them. He leafed over a few of his art books and found them dull.
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