"Pat Frank - Alas, Babylon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Frank Pat)

As soon as she saw Dave's face, Florence could sense whether the news was
going to be good or bad. On this morning Dave looked troubled, and sure
enough, when he began to give the news, it was bad. The Russians had sent up
another Sputnik No. 23, and something sinister was going on in the Middle
East. Sputnik No. 23 was the largest yet, according to the Smithsonian
Institution, and was radioing continuous and elaborate coded signals. "There
is reason to believe," Frank said, "that Sputniks of this size are equipped to
observe the terrain of the earth below."
 Florence gathered her pink flannel robe closer to her neck. She glanced
up, apprehensively, through the kitchen window. All she saw were hibiscus
leaves dripping in the pre-dawn ground fog, and blank gray sky beyond. They
had no right to put those Sputniks up there to spy on people. As if it were on
his mind also, Frank continued:

"Senator Holler, of the Armed Services Committee, yesterday joined others
of a Midwest bloc in demanding that the Air Force shoot down Sputniks capable
of military espionage if they violate U.S. air space. The Kremlin has already
had something to say about this. Any such action, the Kremlin says, will be
regarded the same as an attack on a Soviet vessel or aircraft. The Kremlin
pointed out that the United States has traditionally championed the doctrine
of Freedom of the Seas. The same freedom, says the Soviet statement, applies
to outer space."

The newsman paused, looked up, and half-smiled in wry amusement at this
complexity. He turned a page on his clipboard.

"There is a new crisis in the Middle East. A report from Beirut, via
Cairo, says that Syrian tanks of the most modern Russian design have crossed
the Jordanian frontier. This is undoubtedly a threat to Israel. At the same
time Damascus charges that Turkish troops are mobilizing. . . ."

Florence flipped to Channel 6, Orlando, and country music. She did not
understand, and could not become interested in, the politics of the Middle
East. Sputniks seemed a closer and more personal menace. Her best friend Alice
Cooksey, the librarian, claimed to have seen a Sputnik one evening at
twilight. If you could see it, then it could see you. She stared up through
the window again. No Sputnik. She rinsed the dishes and returned to her
bedroom.

As she wrestled with her girdle, Florence's thought gravitated to the
equally prying behavior of Randy Bragg. She adjusted the Venetian blinds until
she could peer out. He was at it again. There he was, brazenly immodest in
checked red and black pajamas, sitting on his front steps, knees akimbo and
binoculars pressed to his eyes. Although he was perhaps seventy-five yards
distant, she was certain he stared directly at her, and could see through the
tilted louvers. She ducked back against the bedroom wall, hands protecting her
breasts.

Almost every evening for the past three weeks, and on a number of