"Robert Heinlein - Year of the Jackpot" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

She thought. "Maybe we could stop at a filling station and
I could sneak into the ladies' room."
"Mmm, . . . maybe. See here, Meademy house is six
blocks from here and has a garage entrance. You could get
inside without being seen." He looked at her.
She stared back. "Potipharyou don't look like a wolf?"
"Oh, but I am! The worst sort." He whistled and gnashed
his teeth. "See? But Wednesday is my day off from it."
She looked at him and dimpled. "Oh, well! I'd rather
wrestle with you than with Mrs. Megeath. Let's go."
He turned up into the hills. His bachelor diggings were
one of the many little frame houses clinging like fungus to
the brown slopes of the Santa Monica Mountains. The ga-
rage was notched into this hill; the house sat on it. He drove
in, cut the ingition, and led her up a teetei-y inside stairway
into the living room. "In there," he said, pointing. "Help
yourself." He pulled her clothes out of his coat pockets and
handed them to her.
She blushed and took them, disappeared into his bed-
room. He heard her turn the key in the lock. He settled down
in his easy chair, took out his notebook, and opened the
Herald-Exprew.
He was finishing the Daily News and had added several
notes to his collection when she came out. Her hair was
neatly rolled; her face was restored; she had brushed most
of the wrinkles out of her skirt. Her sweater was neither too
tight nor deep cut, but it was pleasantly filled. She reminded
him of well water and farm breakfasts.
He took his raincoat from her, hung it up, and said, "Sit
down, Meade."
She said uncertainly, "I had better go."
"Go if you mustbut I had hoped to talk with you."
"Well" She sat down on the edge of his couch and
looked around. The room was small but as neat as his neck-
tie, clean as his collar. The fireplace was swept; the floor was
bare and polished. Books crowded bookshelves in every pos-
sible space. One corner was filled by an elderly flat-top
desk; the papers on it were neatly in order. Near it, on its
own stand, was a small electric calculator. To her right,
French windows gave out on a tiny porch over the garage.
Beyond it she could see the sprawling city; a few neon signs
were already blinking.
She sat back a little. "This is a nice roomPotiphar. It
looks like you."
"I take that as a compliment. Thank you." She did not
answer; he went on, "Would you like a drink?"
"Oh, would II" She shivered. "I guess I've got the jitters."
He got up. "Not surprising. What'll it be?"
She took Scotch and water, no ice; he was a Bourbon-
and-gingcr-ale man. She had soaked up half her highball in