"Heinlein, Robert A- The Unpleasant Profession of Jonathan Hoag" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

He turned away suddenly and was forced to check himself abruptly, for he was chest to chest with a man who himself was entering the stairway. He shied away. УWatch your step, buddy,Ф the man said, and brushed on past him.
УSorry,Ф Hoag muttered, but the man was already on by.
The manТs tone had been brisk rather than unkind; the incident should not have troubled Hoag, but it did. The manТs dress and appearance, his very odor, upset Hoag. Hoag knew that there was no harm in well-worn dungarees and leather windbreaker, no lack of virtue in a face made a trifle greasy by sweat dried in place in the course of labor. Pinned to the bill of the manТs cap was an oval badge, with a serial number and some lettering. Hoag guessed that he was a truck driver, a mechanic, a rigger, any of the competent, muscular crafts which keep the wheels turning over. Probably a family man as well, a fond father and a good provider, whose greatest lapse from virtue might be an extra glass of beer and a tendency to up it a nickel on two pairs.
It was sheer childishness for Hoag to permit himself to be put off by such appearance and to prefer a white shirt, a decent topcoat, and gloves. Yet if the man had smelled of shaving lotion rather than sweat the encounter would not have been distasteful.
He told himself so and told himself that he was silly and weak. Still-could such a coarse and brutal face really be the outward mark of warmth and sensitivity? That shapeless blob of nose, those piggish eyes?
Never mind, he would go home in a taxi, not looking at anyone. There was a stand just ahead, in front of the delicatessen.
УWhere to?Ф The door of the cab was open; the hackmanТs voice was impersonally insistent.
Hoag caught his eye, hesitated and changed his mind. That brutishness again-eyes with no depth to them and a skin marred by blackheads and enlarged pores.
УUnnh . . . excuse me. I forgot something.Ф He turned away quickly and stopped abruptly, as something caught him around the waist. It was a small boy on skates who had bumped into him. Hoag steadied himself and assumed the look of paternal kindliness which he used to deal with children. УWhoa, there, young fellow!Ф He took the boy by the shoulder and gently dislodged him.
УMaurice!Ф The voice screamed near his ear, shrill and senseless. It came from a large woman, smugly fat, who had projected herself out of the door of the delicatessen. She grabbed the boyТs other arm, jerking him away and aiming a swipe at his ear with her free hand as she did so. Hoag started to plead on the boyТs behalf when he saw that the woman was glaring at him. The youngster, seeing or sensing his motherТs attitude, kicked at Hoag.
The skate clipped him in the shin. It hurt. He hurried away with no other purpose than to get out of sight. He turned down the first side street, his shin causing him to limp a little, and his ears and the back of his neck burning quite as if he had indeed been caught mistreating the brat. The side street was not much better than the street he had left. It was not lined with shops nor dominated by the harsh steel tunnel of the elevatedТs tracks, but it was solid with apartment houses, four stories high and crowded, little better than tenements.
Poets have sung of the beauty and innocence of childhood. But it could not have been this street, seen through HoagТs eyes, that they had in mind. The small boys seemed rat-faced to him, sharp beyond their years, sharp and shallow and snide. The little girls were no better in his eyes. Those of eight or nine, the shapeless stringy age, seemed to him to have tattletale written in their pinched faces-mean souls, born for trouble-making and cruel gossip. Their slightly older sisters, gutter-wise too young, seemed entirely concerned with advertising their arrogant new sex-not for HoagТs benefit, but for their pimply counterparts loafing around the drugstore.
Even the brats in baby carriages-Hoag fancied that he liked babies, enjoyed himself in the role of honorary uncle. Not these. Snotty-nosed and sour-smelling, squalid and squalling-
The little hotel was like a thousand others, definitely third rate without pretension, a single bit of neon reading: УHotel Manchester, Transient & Permanent,Ф a lobby only a half lot wide, long and narrow and a little dark. They are stopped at by drummers careful of their expense accounts and are lived in by bachelors who canТt afford better. The single elevator is an iron-grille cage, somewhat disguised with bronze paint. The lobby floor is tile, the cuspidors are brass. In addition to the clerkТs desk there are two discouraged potted palms and eight leather armchairs. Unattached old men, who seem never to have had a past, sit in these chairs, live in the rooms above, and every now and then one is found hanging in his room, necktie to light fixture.

Hoag backed into the door of the Manchester to avoid being caught in a surge of children charging along the sidewalk. Some sort of game, apparently-he caught the tail end of a shrill chant, У-give him a slap to shut his trap; the last one homeТs a dirty Jap!Ф
УLooking for someone, sir? Or did you wish a room?Ф
He turned quickly around, a little surprised. A room? What he wanted was his own snug apartment but at the moment a room, any room at all, in which he could be alone with a locked door between himself and the world seemed the most desirable thing possible. УYes, I do want a room.Ф
The clerk turned the register around. УWith or without? Five fifty with, three and a half without.Ф
УWith.Ф
The clerk watched him sign, but did not reach for the key until Hoag counted out five ones and a half. УGlad to have you with us. Bill! Show Mr. Hoag up to 412.Ф
The lone bellman ushered him into the cage, looked him up and down with one eye, noting the expensive cut of his topcoat and the absence of baggage. Once in 412 he raised the window a trifle, switched on the bathroom light, and stood by the door.
УLooking for something?Ф he suggested. УNeed any help?Ф
Hoag tipped him. УGet out,Ф he said hoarsely.
The bellman wiped off the smirk. УSuit yourself,Ф he shrugged.
The room contained one double bed, one chest of drawers with mirror, one straight chair and one armchair. Over the bed was a framed print titled УThe Colosseum by Moonlight.Ф But the door was lockable and equipped with a bolt as well and the window faced the alley, away from the street. Hoag sat down in the armchair. It had a broken spring, but he did not mind.
He took off his gloves and stared at his nails. They were quite clean. Could the whole thing have been hallucination? Had he ever gone to consult Dr. Potbury? A man who has had amnesia may have it again, he supposed, and hallucinations as well.
Even so, it could not all be hallucinations; he remembered the incident too vividly. Or could it be? He strained to recall exactly what had happened.

Today was Wednesday, his customary day off. Yesterday he had returned home from work as usual. He had been getting ready to dress for dinner-somewhat absent-mindedly, he recalled, as he had actually been thinking about where he would dine, whether to try a new Italian place recommended by his friends, the Robertsons, or whether it would be more pleasing to return again for the undoubtedly sound goulash prepared by the chef at the Buda-Pesth.
He had about decided in favor of the safer course when the telephone had rung. He had almost missed it, as the tap was running in the washbasin. He had thought that he heard something and had turned off the tap. Surely enough, the phone rang again.
It was Mrs. Pomeroy Jameson, one of his favorite hostesses-not only a charming woman for herself but possessed of a cook who could make clear soups that were not dishwater. And sauces. She had offered a solution to his problem. УIТve been suddenly left in the lurch at the last moment and IТve just got to have another man for dinner. Are you free? Could you help me? Dear Mr. Hoag!Ф
It had been a very pleasant thought and he had not in the least resented being asked to fill in at the last minute. After all, one canТt expect to be invited to every small dinner. He had been delighted to oblige Edith Pomeroy. She served an unpretentious but sound dry white wine with fish and she never committed the vulgarism of serving champagne at any time. A good hostess and he was glad she felt free to ask him for help. It was a tribute to him that she felt he would fit in, unplanned.
He had had such thoughts on his mind, he remembered, as he dressed. Probably, in his preoccupation, what with the interruption of the phone call breaking his routine, he had neglected to scrub his nails.
It must have been that. Certainly there had been no opportunity to dirty his nails so atrociously on the way to the PomeroysТ. After all, one wore gloves.
It had been Mrs. PomeroyТs sister-in-law-a woman he preferred to avoid!-who had called his attention to his nails. She had been insisting with the positiveness called УmodernФ that every manТs occupation was written on his person. УTake my husband-what could he be but a lawyer? Look at him. And you, Dr. Fitts-the bedside manner!Ф
УNot at dinner, I hope.Ф
УYou canТt shake it.Ф
УBut you havenТt proved your point. You knew what we are.Ф
Whereupon that impossible woman had looked around the table and nailed him with her eye. УMr. Hoag can test me. I donТt know what he does. No one does.Ф
УReally, Julia.Ф Mrs. Pomeroy had tried hopelessly to intervene, then had turned to the man on her left with a smile. УJulia has been studying psychology this season.Ф
The man on her left, Sudkins, or Snuggins-Stubbins, that was his name. Stubbins had said, УWhat does Mr. Hoag do?Ф
УItТs a minor mystery. He never talks shop.Ф
УItТs not that,Ф Hoag had offered. УI do not consider-Ф
УDonТt tell me!Ф that woman had commanded. УIТll have it in a moment. Some profession. I can see you with a brief case.Ф He had not intended to tell her. Some subjects were dinner conversation; some were not. But she had gone on.
УYou might be in finance. You might be an art dealer or a book fancier. Or you might be a writer. Let me see your hands.Ф
He was mildly put off by the demand, but he had placed his hands on the table without trepidation. That woman had pounced on him. УGot you! You are a chemist.Ф

Everyone looked where she pointed. Everyone saw the dark mourning under his nails. Her husband had broken the brief silence by saying, УNonsense, Julia. There are dozens of things that will stain nails. Hoag may dabble in photography, or do a spot of engraving. Your inference wouldnТt stand up in court.Ф
УThatТs a lawyer for you! I know IТm right. ArenТt I, Mr. Hoag?Ф