"Isaac Asimov - Gold - 01 - " - читать интересную книгу автора (Asimov Isaac)

"George," said Winthrop, "I want you to meet my fiancщe, Cherry. Cherry, this is George."
"Pleeztameechah," said Cherry. I did not understand the language, but from the tone of her high-pitched, rather nasal voice, I guessed that she was in a state of ecstasy over the opportunity to make my acquaintance.
Cherry occupied my full attention for several minutes for there were several points of interest about her that repaid close observation, but eventually I did manage to notice that Winthrop was in a peculiar state of undress. His vest was open and he was wearing no tie. A closer look revealed that there were no buttons on his vest, and that he was wearing a tie, but it was down his back.
I said, "Winthrop--" and had to point. I couldn't put it into words.
Winthrop said, "They caught me at it at the Brahman Bank."
"I hadn't troubled to shave this morning. I thought since I was going out to dinner, I would shave after I got back at work. Why shave twice in one day? Isn't that reasonable, George?" He sounded aggrieved.
"Most reasonable," I aid.
"Well, they noticed I hadn't shaved and after a quick trial in the office of the president--a kangaroo court, if you want to know--I suffered the punishment you see. I was also relieved of my post and thrown out onto the hard concrete of Tremont Avenue. I bounced twice," he added, with a faint touch of pride.
"But this means you're out of a job!" I was appalled. I have never been out of a job all my life, and I am well aware of the occasional difficulties that entails.
"That is true," said Winthrop. "I now have nothing left in life but my vast stock portfolio, my elaborate bond holdings and the enormous real-estate tract on which the Prudential Center is built--and Cherry."
"Natchally," said Cherry with a giggle. "I wooden leave my man in advoisity, with all that dough to worry about. We gonna get hitched, ainit, Winthrop."
"Hitched?" I said.
Winthrop said, "I believe she is suggesting a blissful wedded state."
Cherry left for a while after that to visit the ladies' room and I said, "Winthrop, she's a wonderful woman, laden down with obvious assets, but if you marry her, you will be cut off by all of New England Society. Even the people in New Haven won't speak to you."
"Let them not." He looked to right and left, leaned toward me and whispered, "Cherry is teaching me sex."
I said, "I thought you knew about that, Winthrop."
"So did I. But there are apparently post-graduate courses in the subject of an intensity and variety I never dreamed."
"How did she find out about it herself?"
"I asked her exactly that, for I will not hide from you that the thought did occur to me that she may have had experiences with other men, though that seems most unlikely for one of her obvious refinement and innocence."
"And what did she say?"
"She said that in the Bensonhoist the woman are born knowing all about sex."
"How convenient!"
"Yes. This is not true in Boston. I was twentyfour before I--but never mind."
All in all, it was an instructive evening, and, thereafter, I need not tell you, Winthrop went rapidly downhill. Apparently, one need only snap the ganglion that controls formality and there are no limits to the lengths to which informality can go.
He was, of course, cut by everyone in New England of any consequence whatsoever, exactly as I had predicted. Even in New Haven at the institute of Lower Learning, which Winthrop had mentioned with such shudderings of distaste, his case was known and his disgrace was gloried in. There was graffiti all over the walls of Jale, or Yule, or whatever its name is, that said, with cheerful obscenity, "Winthrop Carver Cabwell is a Harvard man."
This was, as you can well imagine, fiendishly resented by all the good people of Harvard and there was even talk of an invasion of Yale. The states of both Massachusetts and Connecticut made ready to call up the State Militia but, fortunately, the crisis passed. The fire-eaters, both at Harvard and the other place, decided that a war would get their clothes mussed up.
George had to escape. He married Cherry and they retired to a small house in some place called Fah Rockaway, which apparently serves as Bensonhoist's Riviera. There he lives in obscurity, surrounded by the mountainous remnants of his wealth and by Cherry whose hair has turned brown with age, and whose figure has expanded with weight.
He is also surrounded by five children, for Cherry--in teaching Winthrop about sex--was overenthusiastic. The children, as I recall, are named Poil, Boinard, Goitrude, and Poicy, all good Bensonhoist names. As for Winthrop, he is widely and affectionately known as the Slob of Far Rockaway, and an old, beat-up bathrobe is his preferred article of wear on formal occasions.

I listened to the story patiently and, when George was done, I said, "And there you are. Another story of disaster caused by your interference."
"Disaster?" said George, indignantly. "What gives you the idea that it was a disaster?" I visited Winthrop only last week and he sat there burping over his beer and patting the paunch he has developed, and telling me how happy he was."
"'Freedom, George,' he said. 'I have found freedom to by myself and somehow I feel I owe it to you. I don't know why I have this feeling, but I do.' And he forced a ten-dollar bill on me out of sheer gratitude. I took it only to avoid hurting his feelings. And that reminds me, old fellow, that you owe me ten dollars because you bet me I couldn't tell you a story that didn't end in disaster."
I said, "I don't remember any such bet, George."
George's eyes rolled upward. "How convenient is the flexible memory of a deadbeat. If you had won the bet, you would have remembered it clearly. Am I going to have to ask that you place all your little wagers with me in writing so that I can be free of your clumsy attempts to avoid payment?"
I said, "Oh, well," and handed him a ten-dollar bill, adding, "You won't hurt my feelings, George, if you refuse to accept this."
"It's kind of you to say so," said George, "but I'm sure that your feelings would be hurt, anyway, and I couldn't bear that." And he put the bill away.

The End

I showed this story to Mr. Northrop, too, watching him narrowly as he read it.
He went through it in the gravest possible manner, never a chuckle, never a smile, though I _knew_ this one was funny, and _intentionally_ funny, too.
When he was finished, he went back and read it again, more quickly. Then he looked up at me and there was clear hostility in his eyes. He said, "Did you write this all by yourself, Cal?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did anyone help you? Did you copy any of it?"
"No, sir. Isn't it funny, sir?"
"It depends on your sense of humour," said Mr. Northrop sourly.
"Isn't it a satire? Doesn't it display a sense of the ridiculous?"
"We will not discuss this, Cal. Go to your niche."
I remained there for over a day, brooding over Mr. Northrop's tyranny. It seemed to me I had written exactly the kind of story he had wanted me to write and he had no reason not to say so. I couldn't imagine what was bothering him, and I was angry with him.
The technician arrived the next day. Mr. Northrop handed him my manuscript. "Read that," he said.