"Robert A. Heinlein - Have Space Suit Will Travel" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

"Well, I'll show you how to get the best use of it." He reached across
to the cigar lighter on the tobacco counter and set fire to it, lit a
cigarette with it, let the wrapper bum almost to his fingers, dropped it and
stepped on it.
Mr. Charton watched from the window of the dispensary.
Ace grinned. "Okay, Space Cadet?"
I was gripping the ice-cream scoop. But I answered, "Perfectly okay,
Ace. It's your soap."
Mr. Charton came out and said, "I'll take the fountain, Kip. There's a
package to deliver."
That was almost the only wrapper I missed. The contest ended May 1 and
both Dad and Mr. Charton decided to stock up and cleaned out the last case in
the store. It was almost eleven before I had them written up, then Mr. Charton
drove me to Springfield to get them postmarked before midnight.
I had sent in five thousand seven hundred and eighty-two slogans. I
doubt if Centerville was ever so scrubbed.
The results were announced on the Fourth of July. I chewed my nails to
the elbows in those nine weeks. Oh, other things happened. I graduated and Dad
and Mother gave me a watch and we paraded past Mr. Hanley and got our
diplomas. It felt good, even though what Dad had persuaded me to learn beat
what I learned at dear old Center six ways from zero. Before that was Sneak
Day and Class Honeymoon and Senior Prom and the Class Play and the Junior-
Senior Picnic and all the things they do to keep the animals quiet. Mr.
Charton let me off early if I asked, but I didn't ask often as my mind wasn't
on it and I wasn't going steady anyhow. I had been earlier in the year, but
she -- Elaine McMurty -- wanted to talk boys and clothes and I wanted to talk
space and engineering so she put me back into circulation.
After graduation I worked for Mr. Charton full time. I still didn't know
how I was going to college. I didn't think about it; I just dished sundaes and
held my breath until the Fourth of July.
It was to be on television at 8 P.M. We had a TV -- a black and white
flatimage job -- but it hadn't been turned on in months; after I built it I
lost interest. I dug it out, set it up in the living room and tested the
picture. I killed a couple of hours adjusting it, then spent the rest of the
day chewing nails. I couldn't eat dinner. By seven-thirty I was in front of
the set, not-watching a comedy team and fiddling with my file cards. Dad came
in, looked sharply at me, and said, "Take a grip on yourself, Kip. Let me
remind you again that the chances are against you."
I gulped. "I know, Dad."
"Furthermore, in the long run it won't matter. A man almost always gets
what he wants badly enough. I am sure you will get to the Moon someday, one
way or another."
"Yes, sir. I just wish they would get it over with."
"They will. Coming, Emma?"
"Right away, dearest," Mother called back. She came in, patted my hand
and sat down.
Dad settled back. "Reminds me of election nights."
Mother said, "I'm glad you're no longer up to your ears in that."
"Oh, come now, sweetheart, you enjoyed every campaign."
Mother sniffed.