"Robert A. Heinlein - The unpleasant profession of Johathan Ho" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

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. "I've been
suddenly left in the lurch at the last moment and I've just got to have another man for
dinner. Are you free? Could you help me? Dear Mr. Hoag!"
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 can't 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 Pomeroys'. After all, one wore gloves.
 It had been Mrs. Pomeroy's 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
"modern" that every man's occupation was written on his person. "Take my husband --
what could he be but a lawyer? Look at him. And you, Dr. Fitts -- the bedside manner!"
"Not at dinner, I hope."
"You can't shake it."
"But you haven't proved your point. You knew what we are."
Whereupon that impossible woman had looked around the table and nailed him
with her eye. "Mr. Hoag can test me. I don't know what he does. No one does."
"Really, Julia." Mrs. Pomeroy had tried hopelessly to intervene, then had turned
to the man on her left with a smile. "Julia has been studying psychology this season."
The man on her left, Sudkins, or Snuggins -- Stubbins, that was his name.
Stubbins had said, "What does Mr. Hoag do?"
"It's a minor mystery. He never talks shop."
"It's not that," Hoag had offered. "I do not consider -- "
"Don't tell me!" that woman had commanded. "I'll have it in a moment. Some
profession. I can see you with a brief case." He had not intended to tell her. Some
subjects were dinner conversation; some were not. But she had gone on.
"You 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."
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. "Got you! You are a chemist."

Everyone looked where she pointed. Everyone saw the dark mourning under his
nails. Her husband had broken the brief silence by saying, "Nonsense, Julia. There are
dozens of things that will stain nails. Hoag may dabble in photography, or do a spot of
engraving. Your inference wouldn't stand up in court."