"Effinger, George Alec - Maureen Birnbaum 03 - Maureen Birnbaum at the Looming Awfulness" - читать интересную книгу автора (Effinger George Alec)

strange and ominous signs. First, my roommate, Sandy, was nowhere to be found.
You have to understand that Sandy is terribly incompetent socially, and he
usually retires to his bedroom shortly after dinner. It's entirely unlike him to
be out so late."

I wasn't as upset about it as Rod was, but after all, I didn't know Sandy.
"Maybe he's fallen in love with a forgiving townie woman," I go. "Or maybe he
just really needed a burger or something."

Rod ignored my simple explanations. "Further," he goes, "the casement windows
were forced open from the inside. Upon closer inspection, I found traces of a
horrible, foul-smelling slime on the window sill, and it was dripping and oozing
down the outside wall to the ground."

"Slime," I go in a flat voice. I just knew we were going to run into slime
somewhere along the way. Greenberg School girls are, as you know, Bitsy,
antipathetic toward slime in general.

"The last dreadful clue was that the trail of slime led right to Harkness Tower.
The door had been burst open, and as I entered and looked up the stairwell that
led to the clocktower and carillon, I noted a diffuse and flickering greenish
light descending from the highest level."

"Calm down, Rod," I go. "Now tell me why you called me about all this."

"Well, Maureen," he goes -- and I could tell that he was like way embarrassed --
"I am inclined to take those notes, drawings, and warnings more seriously. My
theory is that one of those eldritch evils abducted Sandy with foul intent, and
has dragged him to the top of Harkness Tower. I called you because --"

"-- because I'm the one with the broadsword," I go. "Okay, I'll get dressed and
be right there."

Immediately I had like this gross image problem: The proper costume to accompany
Old Betsy was the metallic bra and G-string, of course. We're talking New
England winter, though, and if I got into my familiar barbarian drag, I'd freeze
my tush off. And the alternative -- wearing the Ann Taylor shirtdress with the
broadsword -- was too ludicrous even to consider.

I compromised. I wore the leather harness and gold bikini, and zipped up the ski
jacket over them. I hefted Old Betsy, made sure I had my hotel key and bus fare,
and headed out fearlessly into the night.

By the time I got to Branford and the entrance to the chapel in the base of
Harkness Tower, my legs had goosebumps the size of loquats, I'm telling you. My
Rod was waiting for me. He rushed to me and enclosed me in his arms. "Don't be
afraid, my dear," he goes. "I've picked up some spells along the way that I'm
confident will protect us against most of the perverse beings we may meet up
there."