Read Ebook: The pleasure age by Cahill Joed Marchioni M Marco Enrico Illustrator

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Ebook has 225 lines and 7991 words, and 5 pages

"I can try," said Sue, even more doubtfully. "But I'll need a cooking unit of some kind."

"Okay." Riley took a length of wire, fastened it in the lathe chuck and wound it in a long spiral. He coiled the spiral on a metal plate, and attached the wire to a power source. In a couple of minutes he had a makeshift hot plate.

Riley thought it was the best meal he had ever eaten, even if the steaks were a bit charred around the edges and underdone in the middle. Perhaps the fact that Sue was the cook had a lot to do with his appreciation of the food.

"Do you want me to fix something to take to your parents?" Sue asked.

Riley squinted his blue eyes.

"It won't hurt them to miss a meal. I'm going down and try to repair those automeks. All that's wrong, I think, is that the main power unit broke down."

In his diagnosis Riley was correct. With Ward's help, incompetent as the little man was at things mechanical, he managed to repair the power unit during the afternoon so that by evening the kitchen again was operating at full efficiency.

"What I ought to do," said Riley, feeling a bit of pride in his repair work, "is to go around from city to city and fix up all the broken down machinery."

John Ward snorted his disgust at the suggestion.

"Never traveled, have you?"

"No," Riley admitted, "but I guess I could travel a little."

Ward waved his hand impatiently.

"Not what I mean. You've no idea how big the world is. There are ten thousand major cities today. No telling how many smaller ones. Suppose you spent ten days in each city--well, figure it out for yourself."

"I see," said Riley in a small voice.

"Got to make them work," John Ward said. "Got to teach them to work."

"And the big question," Sue added, "is how."

"But if people won't work in the face of utter disaster," Riley argued, "how can we persuade them just by talking?"

"We can keep trying," Sue answered.

On The following morning, Riley went to the telecasting station ahead of Ward to be certain that no one was there. It was just possible, the little man told him, that some of the Committee members might be waiting to catch their unwanted speaker.

In Wales City, once, Ward had been caught and locked up in an Institution for eighteen months before he managed to escape. He didn't want that to happen again, especially now that Sue was working with him.

Riley reported that the telecasting station was deserted, and Ward made his talk. It was similar to the one he had made the previous day and unquestionably had the same effect. While they were returning to the museum, they encountered two Committee members, Mr. Jackson and Mr. Waine.

"Pretend you don't see them," Ward cautioned. "If they stop us we'll have to fight." He said scornfully, "They don't even know how to fight."

"I don't either," Riley admitted.

Ward stroked his little mustache.

"Suppose you don't, at that. My father taught me. Handed down from generation to generation, you see. Look. No, don't look, now. They're watching us.

"Double up your fist, and if they say anything take the guy on the left. Wallop him on the chin, then in the stomach, then on the button again. He won't know how to hit back."

Mr. Waine hailed them at that moment.

"Good morning, Riley. I suppose you, also, are looking for that scoundrel, John Ward. You and your companion."

He peered uncertainly at Ward.

"And you, Riley Ashton, should be ashamed of yourself, consorting with such a character. Your father will be very put out, Riley. I shall report you to the Committee for such action as they deem necessary."

"You take the windbag," Ward said to Riley. "He's the smaller."

Riley doubled up his fists and, with his heart pounding wildly, approached Mr. Waine. As he moved forward he heard the sudden splat of Ward's fist on Mr. Jackson's chin. Then Riley struck the first blow of his life. Deliberately and with malice aforethought he walloped Mr. Waine on the button.

The crunch of his fist against Mr. Waine's chin filled Riley with a wonderful sense of delight. He lowered his arm and punched awkwardly at Mr. Waine's middle. Mr. Waine doubled up with a grunt which, for some funny reason, was like music in Riley's ears.

He drew back his right arm, crouching until his fist was almost at his heel, and swung a roundhouse blow to Mr. Waine's chin. Mr. Waine suddenly buckled at the knees and dropped to a horizontal position, supported only by his float belt.

"Say, Riley, lad," John Ward chuckled, "you're coming right along."

"Did I do all right?" Riley asked panting with excitement.

"Pretty good for an amateur," Ward said judiciously. "Need a little polish. I'll teach you that. Now we'd better get going."

John Ward kept his promise. That evening he gave Riley the first of a series of lessons in the science of fighting, lessons that they planned to continue while they toured the world lecturing on the necessity of work. If it hadn't been for Riley's idea, they would have made that world tour.

"I've been thinking," Riley said, while they rested from the boxing lesson. "I've decided that it's going to take something besides a major disaster like starvation to convince people that they're going to have to work."

Ward was gently sarcastic.

"Brilliant deduction."

"What is it you're thinking?" Sue asked. She had been acting as appreciative audience for the sparring bout.

"They need some constant irritant, some little something to keep them moving. I don't know whether it would work, but come with me and I'll show you what I mean."

Riley led the way through the museum halls to the insect exhibit. He stopped in front of the mosquito picture and read aloud:

"... The hum of its tiny, fast-moving wings was synonymous with discomfort...."

Ward plucked at his mustache.

"So?"

"What we need," Riley said, squinting his blue eyes thoughtfully, "are some mosquitoes."

Sue began laughing. Laughter came easily to her. And Ward responded with his usual sarcastic chuckle.

"Turn them loose on an unsuspecting world? Riley, I don't know whether you're a nut or a genius. But it might work."

"I just remembered," Riley said with sudden gloom. "There aren't any mosquitoes. The last one died over five hundred years ago."

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