（外文电子版资料）Stephen King - The Blue Air Compressor.pdf

THE BLUE AIR COMPRESSOR THE BLUE AIR COMPRESSOR The house was tall, with an incredible slope of shingled roof. As he walked up toward it from the shore road, Gerald Nately thought it was almost a country in itself, geography in microcosm. The roof dipped and rose at varying angles above the main building and two strangely-angled wings; a widows walk skirted a mushroom- shaped cupola which looked toward the sea; the porch, facing the dunes and lusterless September scrubgrass was longer than a Pullman car and screened in. The high slope of roof made the house seem to beetle its brows and loom above him. A Baptist grandfather of a house. He went to the porch and after a moment of hesitation, through the screen door to the fanlighted one beyond. There was only a wicker chair, a rusty porch swing, and an old discarded knitting basket to watch him go. Spiders had spun silk in the shadowy upper corners. He knocked. There was silence, inhabited silence. He was about to knock again when a chair someplace inside wheezed deeply in its throat. It was a tired sound. Silence. Then the slow, dreadfully patient sound of old, overburdened feet finding their way up the hall. Counterpoint of cane: Whock... whock... whock... The floorboards creaked and whined. A shadow, huge and unformed in the pearled glass, bloomed on the fanlight. Endless sound of fingers laboriously solving the riddle of chain, bolt, and hasp lock. The door opened. Hello, the nasal voice said flatly. Youre Mr. Nately. Youve rented the cottage. My husbands cottage. Yes. Gerald said, his tongue swelling in his throat. Thats right. And youre- Mrs. Leighton, the nasal voice said, pleased with either his quickness or her name, though neither was remarkable. Im Mrs. Leighton. * * * this woman is so goddam fucking big and old she looks like oh jesus christ print dress she must be six-six a