Спрут: Калифорнийская история

           Hereweretherailroadtracks,andjustbeyond—ahuddledmassofroofs,withhereandthereanadobehouseonitsoutskirts—thelittletownofGuadalajara.Nearerathand,anddirectlyinfrontofPresley,werethefreightandpassengerdepotsoftheP.andS.W.,paintedinthegreyandwhite,whichseemedtobetheofficialcoloursofallthebuildingsownedbythecorporation.Thestationwasdeserted.Notrainspassedatthishour.Fromthedirectionoftheticketwindow,Presleyheardtheunsteadychitteringofthetelegraphkey.Intheshadowofoneofthebaggagetrucksupontheplatform,thegreatyellowcatthatbelongedtotheagentdozedcomplacently,herpawstuckedunderherbody.Threeflatcars,loadedwithbright-paintedfarmingmachines,wereonthesidingabovethestation,while,ontheswitchbelow,ahugefreightenginethatlackeditscow-catchersatbackuponitsmonstrousdriving-wheels,motionless,solid,drawinglongbreathsthatwerepunctuatedbythesubduedsoundofitssteam-pumpclickingatexactintervals.

           ButevidentlyithadbeendecreedthatPresleyshouldbestoppedateverypointofhisridethatday,for,ashewaspushinghisbicycleacrossthetracks,hewassurprisedtohearhisnamecalled.“Hello,there,Mr.Presley.What’sthegoodword?”

           Presleylookedupquickly,andsawDyke,theengineer,leaningonhisfoldedarmsfromthecabwindowofthefreightengine.Butattheprospectofthisfurtherdelay,Presleywaslesstroubled.Dykeandhewerewellacquaintedandthebestoffriends.