"Evans,.Linda.-.Sleipnir" - читать интересную книгу автора (Evans Linda)

fit through a toilet-paper tube, or ordering the meal in French just to
prove to her that you can pronounce it (whether you can or not). If
we all stayed as stupid as we are when we're young, the species
wouldn't continue breeding very long. Despite the reputation most
infantrymen get, I know perfectly well that women are one hell of a
lot smarter than men. (I can prove itЧact like you did when you
were seventeen, and see how many second dates you get.)

Unfortunately, showing offЧadult asshole styleЧgenerally means
that the damned fool involved is getting careless.

And when men get careless, the gods take advantage.

After nearly three years on Pershing duty, I knew better than to
show off in front of an L-T. But some things are like trying not to
scratch an itch. And besides, it was something I was really good at;
and inordinately proud of; and who would have figured that
something so innocent would prove to be the catalyst that led to
my hiking solo through the middle of a Norwegian mountain,
looking for a god, just so I could strangle him with my bare hands?

What hurt worst was the fact that damned near everything which
had happened had been avoidable; but I'd never been one to
avoid anything I could go out of my way to step into. (Witness my
presence in this cave. . . .)

It had begun, innocently enough, when Sergeant Pritchard
stomped into the barracks mess room. He stamped his feet, shook
snow off his clothes, and began to unpeel.

"Gentlemen," he nodded, carefully avoiding looking at us.

It occurred to me that he looked uncomfortable, and not because
of the weather. I'd been in the Army long enough to know that a
sergeant with a problem is like the common coldЧhe doesn't get
over it; he gives it to somebody else. And there was nobody here
but us. . . .

Pritchard snagged a coffee mug and poured himself a cup. He
sighed and drank again, letting the brew warm him up slowly.

"What's up?" Wally asked suspiciously. Bright boy, Wallenstein . . .

Pritchard cleared his throat self-consciously. "You gentlemen are
scheduled for qualifying next week."

"Boom, rat-tat-tat!"

"Hot damn, we get to shoot next week!"