"Adams, Douglas - Dirk Gently 01 - Holistic Detective Agency" - читать интересную книгу автора (Adams Douglas)

as Clint Eastwood. His eyes gazed swimmingly around the table as he
selected who was going to be spoken at tonight. He had thought that his
prey might be one of the guests, the newly appointed Head of Radio
Three, who was sitting opposite -- but unfortunately he had already
been ensnared by the Music Director of the college and a Professor of
Philosophy. These two were busy explaining to the harassed man that the
phrase 'too much Mozart' was, given any reasonable definition of those
three words, an inherently self-contradictory expression, and that any
sentence which contained such a phrase would be thereby rendered
meaningless and could not, consequently, be advanced as part of an
argument in favour of any given programme-scheduling strategy. The poor
man was already beginning to grip his cutlery too tightly. His eyes
darted about desperately looking for rescue, and made the mistake of
lighting on those of Watkin.
'Good evening,' said Watkin with smiling charm, nodding in the most
friendly way, and then letting his gaze settle glassily on to his bowl
of newly arrived soup, from which position it would not allow itself to
be moved. Yet. Let the bugger suffer a little. He wanted the rescue to
be worth at least a good half dozen radio talk fees.
Beyond Watkin, Richard suddenly discovered the source of the little
girlish giggle that had greeted Reg's conjuring trick. Astonishingly
enough it was a little girl. She was about eight years old with blonde
hair and a glum look. She was sitting occasionally kicking pettishly at
the table leg.
'Who's that?' Richard asked Reg in surprise.
'Who's what?' Reg asked Richard in surprise.
Richard inclined a finger surreptitiously in her direction. 'The
girl,' he whispered, 'the very, very little girl. Is it some new maths
professor?'
Reg peered round at her. 'Do you know,' he said in astonishment, 'I
haven't the faintest idea. Never known anything like it. How
extraordinary.'
At that moment the problem was solved by the man from the BBC, who
suddenly wrenched himself out of the logical half-nelson into which his
neighbours had got him, and told the girl off for kicking the table.
She stopped kicking the table, and instead kicked the air with
redoubled vigour. He told her to try and enjoy herself, so she kicked
him. This did something to bring a brief glimmer of pleasure into her
glum evening, but it didn't last. Her father briefly shared with the
table at large his feelings about baby-sitters who let people down, but
nobody felt able to run with the topic.
'A major season of Buxtehude,' resumed the Director of Music, 'is of
course clearly long overdue. I'm sure you'll be looking forward to
remedying this situation at the first opportunity.'
'Oh, er, yes,' replied the girl's father, spilling his soup, 'er,
that is... he's not the same one as Gluck, is he?'
The little girl kicked the table leg again. When her father looked
sternly at her, she put her head on one side and mouthed a question at
him.
'Not now,' he insisted at her as quietly as he could.