"Philip Jose Farmer - Dayworld" - читать интересную книгу автора (Farmer Phillip Jose)

"Oh, I don't know," Ozma said. "Why don't we give it a scientific test? Do it before sleep
and after and then compare notes?"
"That's the difference between forty and twenty-five. Believe me, I know."
She laughed and said, "We're not a December-April match, darling."
She lay down on the bed, her arms and legs spread out.
"The Castle Ecstatic is undefended, and its drawbridge is down. Charge on in, Sir Galahad,
with your trusty lance."
"I'm afraid I might fall into the moat," he said, grinning.
"You bastard! Are you trying to make me mad again? Charge on in, faint-hearted knight, or
I'll slam the portcullis down on you!"
"You've been watching reruns of The Knights of the Round Table," he said.
"They turn me on, all those violent men on their big horses and maidens ravished by three-
headed ogres. All those spears thrusting. Come on, Jeff! Play along with me!"


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"I seek the Holy Grail," he said as he eased down. "However, it's more like the Holy
Gruel."
"Can I help it if I overlubricate? You keep this up, and I'll paint you brown and flush
you down the toilet. Don't spoil it for me, Jeff. I have to fantasize."
He thought, Whatever happened to good old unimaginative sex? But he said, "I've just taken
a vow of silence. Think of me as the mad monk of Sherwood Forest."
"Don't stop talking. You know I love it when you talk dirty." Fifteen minutes later, she
said, "Did you apply for a permit?"
"No," he said, breathing hard. "I forgot."
She rolled over to face him. "You said you wanted a child."
"Yes. Only. . . you know I had so much trouble with Arid. I wonder if I really want
another child."
Ozma stroked his cheek gently. "Your daughter's a wonderful woman. What trouble?"
"Lots after her mother died. She got neurotic, too depen
dent. And she's very jealous of you, though she has no reason to be."
"I don't think so," Ozma said. "Anyway ... trouble? What trouble? Have you been holding
out on me?"

"We'll talk about it during breakfast," she said. "Unless you'd like to talk about it now.
You know, I thought for sure that you wanted a child. I had some misgivings myself. I am an
artist, and I should give my all to my art, excluding of course what I gladly give to you. But a
child? I wasn't sure. Then-"
"We've been through that," he said. He mimicked her low husky hint-of-gravel-grinding
voice. "'Every woman is an artist in that she can produce a masterpiece, her child. However, not
all women are good artists. But I am, I am. Painting is not enough.'"
She hit his arm with a tiny fist. "You make me sound so pompous."
"Not at all." He kissed her. "Good night. We'll talk later."
"That's what I said. But .. . you'll apply today?"
"I promise."
Though they could have sent in their application via TV strip, they had a much better
chance of acceptance if he used his connections as an organic (a euphemism for policeperson, who
represented the force of the "organic" government). He would talk face to face with a superior