Читать книгу The Science Fiction Anthology онлайн

442 страница из 776

At the last he told the old man about Lucy.

“You cannot have everything, you know,” said his listener.

“I can have her,” answered the artist harshly. “You wouldn’t let me die, so I won’t die. I’ll go back and I’ll take her away from that fat-head Malone that she ought to marry. I’ll give her a couple of happy years working herself to skin and bones for me before she begins to hate it—before I begin to hate it.”

“You can’t go back,” said the old man. “I’m Cerberus. You understand that? The girl is nothing. The society you come from is nothing. We have a place here.... Sister, can he sit up?”

The woman smiled and cranked his bed. Halvorsen saw through a picture window that he was in a mountain-rimmed valley that was very green and dotted with herds and unpainted houses.

“Such a place there had to be,” said the old man. “In the whole geography of Europe, there had to be a Soltau Valley with winds and terrain just right to deflect the dust.”

“Nobody knows?” whispered the artist.

“We prefer it that way. It’s impossible to get some things, but you would be surprised how little difference it makes to the young people. They are great travelers, the young people, in their sweaty coveralls with radiation meters. They think when they see the ruined cities that the people who lived in them must have been mad. It was a little travel party like that which found you. The boy was impressed by something you said, and I saw some interesting things in your hands. There isn’t much rock around here; we have fine deep topsoil. But the boys could get you stone.