"Adams, Douglas - So Long, and Thanks For All the Fish" - читать интересную книгу автора (Adams Douglas)

In fact one of the wiper blades began to flap off.

Swish swish swish flop swish flop swish swish flop swish flop
swish flop flop flop scrape.

He pounded his steering wheel, kicked the floor, thumped his
cassette player till it suddenly started playing Barry Manilow,
thumped it again till it stopped, and swore and swore and swore
and swore and swore.

It was at the very moment that his fury was peaking that there
loomed swimmingly in his headlights, hardly visible through the
blatter, a figure by the roadside.

A poor bedraggled figure, strangely attired, wetter than an otter
in a washing machine, and hitching.

"Poor miserable sod," thought Rob McKeena to himself, realizing
that here was somebody with a better right to feel hard done by
than himself, "must be chilled to the bone. Stupid to be out
hitching on a filthy night like this. All you get is cold, wet,
and lorries driving through puddles at you."

He shook his head grimly, heaved another sigh, gave the wheel a
turn and hit a large sheet of water square on.

"See what I mean?" he thought to himself as he ploughed swiftly
through it. "You get some right bastards on the road."

Splattered in his rear mirror a couple of seconds later was the
reflection of the hitch-hiker, drenched by the roadside.

For a moment he felt good about this. A moment or two later he
felt bad about feeling good about it. Then he felt good about
feeling bad about feeling good about it and, satisfied, drove on
into the night.

At least it made up for having been finally overtaken by that
Porsche he had been diligently blocking for the last twenty
miles.

And as he drove on, the rainclouds dragged down the sky after
him, for, though he did not know it, Rob McKeena was a Rain God.
All he knew was that his working days were miserable and he had a
succession of lousy holidays. All the clouds knew was that they
loved him and wanted to be near him, to cherish him, and to water
him.

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