The Shining 原版小说-第71部分

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and　a　pair　of　J。　C。　Penney　jumper　cables　coiled　between　them。　He　slipped　one　of　


　
　
the　short…handled　mallets　out　of　the　front　rack　and　held　it　up　in　front　of　his　
face；　like　a　knight　bound　for　battle　saluting　his　king。　
　　Fragments　of　his　dream　（it　was　all　jumbled　now；　fading）　recurred；　something　
about　George　Hatfield　and　his　father's　cane；　just　enough　to　make　him　uneasy　and；　
absurdly　enough；　a　trifle　guilty　about　holding　a　plain　old　garden…variety　roque　
mallet。　Not　that　roque　was　such　a　mon　garden…variety　game　anymore；　its　more　
modern　cousin；　croquet；　was　much　more　popular　now　。。。　and　a　child's　version　of　
the　game　at　that。　Roque；　however。。。　that　must　have　been　quite　a　game。　Jack　had　
found　a　mildewed　rule　book　down　in　the　basement；　from　one　of　the　years　in　the　
early　twenties　when　a　North　American　Roque　Tournament　had　been　held　at　the　
Overlook。　Quite　a　game。　
　　（schizo）　
　　He　frowned　a　little；　then　smiled。　Yes；　it　was　a　schizo　sort　of　game　at　that。　
The　mallet　expressed　that　perfectly。　A　soft　end　and　a　hard　end。　A　game　of　
finesse　and　aim；　and　a　game　of　raw；　bludgeoning　power。　
　　He　swung　the　mallet　through　the　air　。。。　whhhoooop。　He　smiled　a　little　at　the　
powerful；　whistling　sound　it　made。　Then　he　replaced　it　in　the　rack　and　turned　to　
his　left。　What　he　saw　there　made　him　frown　again。　
　　The　snowmobile　sat　almost　in　the　middle　of　the　equipment　shed；　a　fairly　new　
one；　and　Jack　didn't　care　for　its　looks　at　all。　Bombardier　Skidoo　was　written　on　
the　side　of　the　engine　cowling　facing　him　in　black　letters　which　had　been　raked　
backward；　presumably　to　connote　speed。　The　protruding　skis　were　also　black。　
There　was　black　piping　to　the　right　and　left　of　the　cowling；　what　they　would　
call　racing　stripes　on　a　sports　car。　But　the　actual　paintjob　was　a　bright；　
sneering　yellow；　and　that　was　what　he　didn't　like　about　it。　Sitting　there　in　its　
shaft　of　morning　sun；　yellow　body　and　black　piping；　black　skis　and　black　
upholstered　open　cockpit；　it　looked　like　a　monstrous　mechanized　wasp。　When　it　
was　running　it　would　sound　like　that　too。　Whining　and　buzzing　and　ready　to　
sting。　But　then；　what　else　should　it　look　like？　It　wasn't　flying　under　false　
colors；　at　least。　Because　after　it　had　done　its　job；　they　were　going　to　be　
hurting　plenty。　All　of　them。　By　spring　the　Torrance　family　would　be　hurting　so　
badly　that　what　those　wasps　had　done　to　Danny's　hand　would　look　like　a　mother's　
kisses。　
　　He　pulled　his　handkerchief　from　his　back　pocket；　wiped　his　mouth　with　it；　and　
walked　over　to　the　Skidoo。　He　stood　looking　down　at　it；　the　frown　very　deep　now；　
and　stuffed　his　handkerchief　back　into　his　pocket。　Outside　a　sudden　gust　of　wind　
slammed　against　the　equipment　shed；　making　it　rock　and　creak。　He　looked　out　the　
window　and　saw　the　gust　carrying　a　sheet　of　sparkling　snow　crystals　toward　the　
drifted…in　rear　of　the　hotel；　whirling　them　high　into　the　hard　blue　sky。　
　　The　wind　dropped　and　he　went　back　to　looking　at　the　machine。　It　was　a　
disgusting　thing；　really。　You　almost　expected　to　see　a　long；　limber　stinger　
protruding　from　the　rear　of　it。　He　had　always　disliked　the　goddam　snowmobiles。　
They　shivered　the　cathedral　silence　of　winter　into　a　million　rattling　fragments。　
They　startled　the　wildlife。　They　sent　out　huge　and　pollutive　clouds　of　blue　and　
billowing　oilsmoke　behind　them　—　cough；　cough；　gag；　gag；　let　me　breathe。　They　
were　perhaps　the　final　grotesque　toy　of　the　unwinding　fossil　fuel　age；　given　to　
ten…year…olds　for　Christmas。　
　　He　remembered　a　newspaper　article　he　had　read　in　Stovington；　a　story　datelined　


　
　
someplace　in　Maine。　A　kid　on　a　snowmobile；　barrel…assing　up　a　road　he'd　never　
traveled　before　at　better　than　thirty　miles　an　hour。　Night。　His　headlight　off。　
There　had　been　a　heavy　chain　strung　between　two　posts　with　a　NO　TRESPASSING　sign　
hung　from　the　middle。　They　said　that　in　all　probability　the　kid　never　saw　it。　
The　moon　might　have　gone　behind　a　cloud。　The　chain　had　decapitated　him。　Reading　
the　story　Jack　had　been　almost　glad；　and　now；　looking　down　at　this　machine；　the　
feeling　recurred。　
　　（If　it　wasn't　for　Danny；　I　would　take　great　pleasure　in　grabbing　one　of　those　
mallets；　opening　the　cowling；　and　just　pounding　until）　
　　He　let　his　pent…up　breath　escape　him　in　a　long　slow　sigh。　Wendy　was　right。　
e　hell；　high　water；　or　the　welfare　line；　Wendy　was　right。　Pounding　this　
machine　to　death　would　be　the　height　of　folly；　no　matter　how　pleasant　an　aspect　
that　folly　made。　It　would　almost　be　tantamount　to　pounding　his　own　son　to　death。　
　　〃Fucking　Luddite；〃　he　said　aloud。　
　　He　went　to　the　back　of　the　machine　and　unscrewed　the　gascap。　He　found　a　
dipstick　on　one　of　the　shelves　that　ran　at　chest…height　around　the　walls　and　
slipped　it　in。　The　last　eighth　of　an　inch　came　out　wet。　Not　very　much；　but　
enough　to　see　if　the　damn　thing　would　run。　Later　he　could　siphon　more　from　the　
Volks　and　the　hotel　truck。　
　　He　screwed　the　cap　back　on　and　opened　the　cowling。　No　sparkplugs；　no　battery。　
He　went　to　the　shelf　again　and　began　to　poke　along　it；　pushing　aside　
screwdrivers　and　adjustable　wrenches；　a　one…lung　carburetor　that　had　been　taken　
out　of　an　old　lawnmower；　plastic　boxes　of　screws　and　nails　and　bolts　of　varying　
sizes。　The　shelf　was　thick　and　dark　with　old　grease；　and　the　years'　accumulation　
of　dust　had　stuck　to　it　like　fur。　He　didn't　like　touching　it。　
　　He　found　a　small；　oil…stained　box　with　the　abbreviation　Skid。　laconically　
marked　on　it　in　pencil。　He　shook　it　and　something　rattled　inside。　Plugs。　He　held　
one　of　them　up　to　the　light；　trying　to　estimate　the　gap　without　hunting　around　
for　the　gapping　tool。　Fuck　it；　he　thought　resentfully；　and　dropped　the　plug　back　
into　the　box。　If　the　gap's　wrong；　that's　just　too　damn　bad。　Tough　fucking　titty。　
　　There　was　a　stool　behind　the　door。　He　dragged　it　over；　sat　down；　and　installed　
the　four　sparkplugs；　then　fitted　the　small　rubber　caps　over　each。　That　done；　he　
let　his　fingers　play　briefly　over　the　magneto。　They　laughed　when　I　sat　down　at　
the　piano。　
　　Back　to　the　shelves。　This　time　he　couldn't　find　what　he　wanted；　a　small　
battery。　A　three…　or　four…cell。　There　were　socket　wrenches；　a　case　filled　with　
drills　and　drillbits；　bags　of　lawn　fertilizer　and　Vigoro　for　the　flower　beds；　
but　no　snowmobile　battery。　It　didn't　bother　him　in　the　slightest。　In　fact；　it　
made　him　feel　glad。　He　was　relieved。　I　did　my　best；　Captain；　but　I　could　not　get　
through。　That's　fine；　son。　I'm　going　to　put　you　in　for　the　Silver　Star　and　the　
Purple　Snowmobile。　You're　a　credit　to　your　regiment。　Thank　you；　sir。　I　did　try。　
　　He　began　to　whistle　〃Red　River　Valley〃　uptempo　as　he　poked　along　the　last　two　
or　three　feet　of　shelf。　The　notes　came　out　in　little　puffs　of　white　smoke。　He　
had　made　a　plete　circuit　of　the　shed　and　the　thing　wasn't　there。　Maybe　
somebody　had　lifted　it。　Maybe　Watson　had。　He　laughed　aloud。　The　old　office　
bootleg　trick。　A　few　paperclips；　a　couple　of　reams　of　paper；　nobody　will　miss　
this　tablecloth　or　this　Golden　Regal　place　setting　。。。　and　what　about　this　
fine　snowmobile　battery？　Yes；　that　might　e　in　handy。　Toss　it　in　the　sack。　


　
　
White…collar　crime；　Baby。　Everybody　has　sticky　fingers。　Under…the…jacket　
discount；　we　used　to　call　it　when　we　were　kids。　
　　He　walked　back　to　the　snowmobile　and　gave　the　side　of　it　a　good　healthy　kick　
as　he　went　by。　Well；　that　was　the　end　of　it。　He　would　just　have　to　tell　Wendy　
sorry；　baby；　but　—　　
　　There　was　a　box　sitting　in　the　corner　by　the　door。　The　stool　bad　been　right　
over　it。　Written　on　the　top；　in　pencil；　was　the　abbreviation　Skid。　
　　He　looked　at　it；　the　smile　drying　up　on　his　lips。　Look；　sir；　it's　the　cavalry。　
Looks　like　your　smoke　signals　must　have　worked　after　all。　
　　It　wasn't　fair。　
　　Goddammit；　it　just　wasn't　fair。　
　　Something　—　luck；　fate；　providence　—　had　been　trying　to　save　him。　Some　other　
luck；　white　luck。　And　at　the　last　moment　bad　old　Jack　Torrance　luck　had　stepped　
back　in。　The　lousy　run　of　cards　wasn't　over　yet。　
　　Resentment；　a　gray；　sullen　wave　of　it；　pushed　up　his　throat。　His　hands　had　
clenched　into　fists　again。　
　　（Not　fair；　goddammit；　not　fair！）　
　　Why　couldn't　he　have　looked　someplace　e