"Harry Harrison - SSR 02 - The Stainless Steel Rat's Revenge" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

road. "You promised to make an honest woman out of me so that we could call
this a honeymoon."
"My love," I said, and clasped her hand in all sincerity. "At the first
possible moment. I don't want to make an honest woman out of you--that would
be physically impossible since you are basically as larcenous minded as I am--
but I will certainly many you and slip an expensive--"
"Stolen!"
"-ring on this delicate little finger. I do promise. But the second we try
to register a marriage we'll be fed into the computer and the game will be up.
Our little holiday at an end."
"And you'll be hooked for life. I think I better grab you now before I get
too round to run and catch you. We'll go to your beach resort and enjoy one
last day of mad freedom. And tomorrow, right after breakfast, we are getting
married. Do you promise?"
 "There is just one question . . ."
"Promise, Slippery Jim, I know you!"
"You have my word except . . ."
She braked the car to a skidding stop and I found myself looking down the
barrel of my own .75 recoilless. It looked very big. Her knuckle was white on
the trigger.
"Promise you quick-witted slippery tricky crooked lying con man or I'll
blow your brains out."
"My darling, you do love me!"
"Of course I do. But if I can't have you all to myself I'll have you dead.
Speak!"
"We get married in the morning."
"Some men are so hard to convince," she whispered, slipping the gun into
my pocket and herself into my arms. Then she kissed me with such delicious
intensity that I almost looked forward to the morrow.

Chapter 2

"WHERE ARE YOU GOING, Slippery Jim?" Angelina asked, leaning out of the
window of our room above. I stopped with my hand on the gate.
"Just down for a quick swim, my love," I shouted back and swung the gate
open. A .75 roared and the ruins of the gate were blown out of my hand.
"Open your robe," she said, not unkindly, and blew the smoke from the gun
barrel at the same time.
I shrugged with resignation and opened the beach robe. My feet were bare.
But of course I was fully dressed, with my pant legs rolled up and my shoes
stuffed into my jacket pockets. She nodded understandably.
"You can come back upstairs. You're going nowhere."
"Of course I'm not." Hot indignation. "I'm not that sort of chap. I was
just afraid you might misunderstand. I just wanted to nip into the shops and .
. ."
"Upstairs."
I went. Hell hath no fury etc. was invented to describe my Angelina. The
Special Corps medics had stripped her of her homicidal tendencies, unknotted
the tangled skeins of her subconscious and equipped her for a more happy
existence than circumstance had previously provided. But when it came to the