"Gordon R. Dickson - Idiot Solvant" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dickson Gordon R)

blinked and focused upon her with some difficulty.
"Oh . . . there you are тАУ" he said. "Love you. Naturally. Only real woman in
universe. Other four point seven to the nine hundred seventeenth women in
universe pale imitations. Marry me week Tuesday, three P.M., courthouse,
wear blue." Margie gasped.
"Open the door for us, will you?"
"Certainly, sir," said the waiter, opening the front door to the Calice d'Or.
A pink and gray taxi was drawn up at the curb.
"Sell stock in Wehauk Cannery immediately," Art was saying to the waiter.
"Mismanagement. Collapse." The waiter blinked and stared. "News out in
ten days."
"But how did you know I had тАУ" the waiter was beginning as they shoved
Art into the back seat of the cab. Margie got in after him.
"Ah, there you are," came Art's voice from the cab. "First son Charles
Jonas тАУ blond hair, blue eyes. Second son, William тАУ"
"I'll send somebody to pick up that encyclopedia and anything else he
left," said Hank to the waiter and got into the taxi himself. The taxi pulled
away from the curb.
"Well," said the waiter, after a long pause in which he stared after the
receding cab, to the doorman who had just joined him on the sidewalk,
"how do you like that? Ever see anything like that before?"
"No, and I never saw anyone with over a gallon of champagne in him still
walking around, either," said the doorman.


". . . And the worst of it is," said Hank to Arlie, as they sat in Hank's office,
two days later, "Margie is going to marry him."
"What's wrong with that?" asked Arlie.
"What's wrong with it? Look at that!" Hank waved his hand at an object in
the center of his desk.
"I've seen it," said Arlie.
 They both examined the object. It appeared to be an ordinary moveable
telephone with a cord and wall plug. The plug, however, was plugged into a
small cardboard box the size of a cheese carton, filled with a tangled mess
of wire and parts cannibalized from a cheap portable radio. The box was
plugged into nothing.
"What was that number again . . . oh, yes," said Arlie. He picked up the
phone and dialed a long series of numbers. He held the phone tip so that
they could both hear. There was a faint buzzing ring from the earphone and
then a small, tinny voice filled the office.
". . . The time is eight forty-seven. The temperature is eighteen degrees
above zero, the wind westerly at eight miles an hour. The forecast for the
Anchorage area is continued cloudy and some snow with a high of
twenty-two degrees, a low tonight of nine above. Elsewhere in Alaska тАУ"
Arlie sighed, and replaced the phone in its cradle.
"We bring him back here," said Hank, "stewed to the gills. In forty
minutes, before he passed out, he builds this trick wastebasket of his that
holds five times as much as it ought to. He sleeps seven hours and wakes
up as good as ever. What should I do? Shoot him, or something? I must
have some responsibility to the human race тАУ if not to Marcie."