The Illustrated Man [antikvár]

PROLOGUE: The Dlustrated Man It was a warm afternoon in early September when I Erst met the Illustrated Man. Walking along an asphalt road, I was on the finaJ leg of a two weeks' walking tour of Wisconsin. Late in the afternoon I stopped, ate some pork, beans, and a doughnut, and was preparing to stretch out and read when the Illustrated Man walked over the hill and stood for a moment against the sky. I didn't know he was Illustrated then. I only knew that he was tall, once well muscled, but now, for some reason, going to fat. I recall that his arms were long, and the hands thick, but that his face was like a child's, set upon a massive body. He seemed only to sense my presence, for he didn't look directly at me when he spoke his Erst words: "Do you know where I can find a job?" *Tm afraid not," I said. "I haven't had a job that's lasted in forty years," he said. Though it was a hot late afternoon, he wore his wool shirt buttoned tight about his neck. His sleeves were rolled and buttoned down over his thick wrists. Perspiration was streaming from his face, yet he made no move to open his shirt. "Well," he said at last, "this is as good a place as any to spend the night. Do you mind company?" "I have some extra food you'd be welcome to," I said. He sat down heavily, grunting. "You'll be sorry you asked we to stay," he said. "Everyone always is. That's why I'm walking. Here it is, early September, the cream of the Labor Day carnival season. 1 should be making money hand over Est at any small town side show celebration, but here I am with no prospects." He took off an immense shoe and peered at it closely. "I usually keep a job about ten days. Then something happens and they fire me. By now every carnival in America won't touch me with a ten-foot pole.'' "What seems to be the trouble?" I asked. 1