"anthony,_piers_&_farmer,_philip_jose_-_the_caterpillars_question" - читать интересную книгу автора (Farmer Phillip Jose)

see that she had a good appetite. She evidently was not used to this
particular menu, but was experienced with bedroom meals. His pleasure
became concern as he thought about it. Had they ever let her eat at the
table, family style? He could see why they might not have, but it
bothered him anyway. There was a human being inside that tortured
shell!

His thoughts drifted to his own motives. Why had he taken this job? A
week before he'd have laughed if someone had predicted he'd be sitting
on a motel bed eating supper with a blind girl almost ten years his
junior. But he hadn't realized how hard it would be for a budding
artist with one year of college to get a decent summer job.

Jack had kicked around for two, three years-he didn't know exactly where
the time went-before running into Donna. Then suddenly he had the need
to make something of himself. So he went to college and studied art.
Did okay, too; he did have talent. But by the time he got it together,
Donna had drifted elsewhere. He never even got to tell her of the
effect she had on his motivation. He grieved, of course, and considered
giving it up. But he discovered that life did go on, and there might
even be other girls on the horizon.

Meanwhile, he needed wherewithal to continue college; that kept him busy
around the edges. He soon realized that he was not likely to make it by
washing dishes at joints that had never heard of the minimum wage scale,
or changing tires for tips, or taking any of the other menial positions
for which one year of art seemed to qualify him.

The ad had offered a thousand dollars plus liberal expenses and- the use
of a good car for one week's light work. It had seemed too good to be
true, and he was amazed to learn that the job hadn't been taken. No, it
didn't involve drugs or anything illegal; it was just chauffeuring. If
he had a valid license and a good record ...

Jack had little else, but he did have those. He valued his potential
career as a world-famous artist too much to mess it up with bad driving.
He liked to travel; every new region was grist for his painting.

The job was to deliver Tappy to the clinic across the country.

He assumed that it was legal for him to transport this child, or they
would not have hired him. He needed the money, and didn't ask too many
questions. He had had no idea that jobs like this existed! If he could
find a couple more like this, at similar pay scales, his next year of
college would be assured.

They had covered four hundred miles today. At this rate he'd have Tappy
at the clinic the day after tomorrow, and could be back two days early.
The pay was for the job, not the time, so he had nothing to lose by
being prompt. If the girl didn't talk, at least she wasn't much