"Joe Haldeman - Seven and the Stars" - читать интересную книгу автора (Haldeman Joe)

SEVEN AND THE STARS
Sometimes it's best to settle for part of the truth. When you're at a cocktail party and some
stranger asks what you do for a living, you don't come right out and say "I'm a science
fiction writer." Sometimes it's better to say "I'm a novelist," or "I'm a freelance writer," or
even "I'm between jobs right now." Because you can get the damnedest responses.
Now, I'm not bothered by the philistines who mumble something about "that Buck
Rogers stuff" and wander vaguely away. Nor even the people who have a terrific story idea
and will split fifty-fifty, if you'll do the writing. (I always tell them I'm dead-lined and give
them my ex-agent's phone number.) What bothers me is some of the nuts you meet, if
they're unpleasant ones, and the people who think that you yourself must be a nut.
People find out you write science fiction and they automatically think you share their
belief in flying saucers, yetis, the Loch Ness monster, the Tooth Fairy, anything. Most of the
sf writers I know don't even believe in NASA.
Still, you can't stay away from cocktail parties. If a writer refuses a free drink, they find
out about it and take away his Guild membership.
So I was at this West Village cocktail party, having canapes for dinner, when an elegant
woman in fifty-dollar jeans came up and asked me the Question. You can't lie to fifty-dollar
jeans. There's something sincere about that kind of excess.
"Oh," she said, "you must be interested in UFOs."
Here I have to admit to some incipient sexism, or at least an optimistic mating instinct. If
she'd been a man, I would've rolled my eyes ceilingward and said something disparaging.
And life would be simpler now. As it was, I put on a serious expression and said only that I
didn't think there was enough evidence to come to a conclusion.
She dimpled gloriously and said she thought she had evidence. My instincts should have
told me that screwballs come in all shapes and sizes. But I was attracted to her, and she
didn't seem too loony, and in the back of my mind was the idea that there might be a story
hereтАФnot science fiction, but the cheap kind of breathless exploitation that fuels the weekly
tabloids. I'd never stooped that low before. But the rent was due and I actually was at that
party for the canapes.
"What sort of evidence?" I asked. "I've never seen a photograph, or anything, that I
thought was very convincing."
"It's . . . hard to describe. You might think I was crazy or something."
"Not at all. That's not an accusation a science fiction writer would make lightly. Six
impossible things before breakfast, you know."
"If you really are interested, I'd rather show you. Come to my place after the party?"
No, I'd rather be poked in the eye with something sharp. I told her I'd be ready to leave
whenever she was. She circulated for a while and I finished my dinner.
I should have smelled a rat. One minute of conversation and she wants me to come spend
the evening. It was not for my lean and hairy personage.
We walked to an underground lot and picked up her car, a well-restored old Jaguar sedan.
On the drive out to Westchester I learned that she was an analyst for a municipal-fund outfit.
So I was able to check her outтАФa couple of years ago I had some Hollywood money and
put it into municipalsтАФand found that she was very sharp. About her "evidence," though,
she offered nothing. I didn't ask, of course.
Her name was Lydia Martell. She lived in North Tarrytown, in an upper-middle-class
stucco house overlooking the Hudson and the train. I expressed surprise that she had such a
large place; she said she'd been married once.
The first thing I noticed, inside, was a strong citrus odor, like those sachets little old
ladies bring back from Florida. Other than that, the house was severely modern,
unrelentingly tasteful. When Lydia went off to make coffee, I did some discreet snooping.