"Foster, Alan Dean - Smart Dragons, Foolish Elves" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

tire? A trunk was something more than a cavity back of the
rear seat; in most cars it contained highly useful objects.

None of which he had with him.

None of which he had even thought about, until just this
minute.

He contemplated the prospects of driving from coast to
coast without a spare tire and without tools, and his mood of
warm security evaporated abruptly. At the next exit, he
decided, he'd hunt for a service station and pick up a tire,

AS IS 7

fast. There would be room for it on the back seat next to his
luggage. And while he was at it, he might as well buy --

The U-Hall, he suddenly observed, was jackknifing
around awkwardly in back, as though its wheels had just
lost traction. A moment later the car was doing the same,
and he found himself moving laterally in a beautiful skid
across an unsanded slick patch on the highway. Steer in the
direction of the skid, that's what you're supposed to do, he
told himself, strangely calm. Somehow he managed to keep
his foot off the brake despite all natural inclinations, and
watched in quiet horror as car and trailer slid placidly across
the empty lane to his right and came to rest, upright and
facing forward, in the piled-up snowbank along the shoul-
der of the road.

He let out his breath slowly, scratched his chin, and
gently fed some gas. The spinning wheels made a high-
pitched whining sound against the snow. He went nowhere.
He was stuck.

The little man had a ruddy-cheeked face, white hair so
long it curled at the ends, and metal-rimmed spectacles. He
glanced at the snow-covered autos in the used-car lot,
scowled, and trudged toward the showroom.

"Came to pick up my car," he announced. "Valve job.
Delayed by business in another part of the world."

The dealer looked uncomfortable. "The car's not here."

"So I see. Get it, then."

"We more or less sold it about a week ago."