Пролетая над гнездом кукушки

           Ahandtakesoffhiswristwatch,wonitfromScanlon,dropsitnearthepanel,itspringsopen,cogsandwheelsandthelongdribblingspiralofspringjumpingagainstthesideofthepanelandstickingfast.

           Hedon’tlookabitscared.Hekeepsgrinningatme.

           Theyputthegraphitesalveonhistemples."Whatisit?"hesays."Conductant,"thetechniciansays."Anointestmyheadwithconductant.DoIgetacrownofthorns?"

           Theysmeariton.He’ssingingtothem,makestheirhandsshake.

           "‘GetWildrootCreamOil,Cholly....’"

           Putonthosethingslikeheadphones,crownofsilverthornsoverthegraphiteathistemples.Theytrytohushhissingingwithapieceofrubberhoseforhimtobiteon.

           "‘Magewiththoothinglan-o-lin.’"

           Twistsomedials,andthemachinetrembles,tworobotarmspickupsolderingironsandhunchdownonhim.Hegivesmethewinkandspeakstome,muffled,tellsmesomething,sayssomethingtomearoundthatrubberhosejustasthoseironsgetcloseenoughtothesilveronhistemples—lightarcsacross,stiffenshim,bridgeshimupoffthetabletillnothingisdownbuthiswristsandanklesandoutaroundthatcrimpedblackrubberhoseasoundlikehooeee!andhe’sfrostedovercompletelywithsparks.

           Andoutthewindowthesparrowsdropsmokingoffthewire.

           TheyrollhimoutonaGurney,stilljerking,facefrostedwhite.Corrosion.Batteryacid.Thetechnicianturnstome.

           Watchthatothermoose.Iknowhim.Holdhim!

           It’snotawill-powerthinganymore.

           Holdhim!Damn.