"Henry Kuttner - The Best of Henry Kuttner" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kuttner Henry)

"New shoes. Like 'em?"
"Here's to crime," Paradine muttered absently. "Huh? Shoes? Not now. Wait till I've finished this. I had a bad day."
"Exams?"
"Yeah. Flaming youth aspiring towards manhood. I hope they die. In considerable agony. Insh' Allah!"
"I want the olive," Jane requested.
"I know," Paradine said despondently. "It's been years since I've tasted one myself. In a Martini, I mean. Even if I put six of 'em in your glass, you're still not satisfied."
"I want yours. Blood brotherhood. Symbolism. That's why."
Paradine regarded his wife balefully and crossed his long legs. "You sound like one of my students."
"Like that hussy Betty Dawson, perhaps?" Jane unsheathed her nails. "Does she still leer at you in that offensive way?"
"She does. The child is a neat psychological problem. Luckily she isn't mine. If she were-" Paradine nodded significantly. "Sex consciousness and too many movies. I suppose she still thinks she can get a passing grade by showing me her knees. Which are, by the way, rather bony."
Jane adjusted her skirt with an air of complacent pride. Paradine un


coiled himself and poured fresh Martinis. "Candidly, I don't see the point of teaching those apes philosophy. They're all at the wrong age. Their habit patterns, their methods of thinking, are already laid down. They're horribly conservative, not that they'd admit it. The only people who can understand philosophy are mature adults or kids like Emma and Scotty."
'Well, don't enroll Scotty in your course," Jane requested. "He isn't ready to be a Philosophiae Doctor. I hold no brief for a child genius, especially when it's my son."
"Scotty would probably be better at it than Betty Dawson," Paracline grunted.
"He died an enfeebled old dotard at five," Jane quoted dreamily. "I want your olive."
"Here. By the way, I like the shoes."
"Thank you. Here's Rosalie. Dinner?"
"It's all ready, Miz Pa'dine," said Rosalie, hovering. "I'll call Miss Emma 'n' Mista' Scotty."
"I'll get 'em." Paradine put his head into the next room and roared, "Kids! Come and get it!"
Small feet scuttered down the stairs. Scott dashed into view, scrubbed and shining, a rebellious cowlick aimed at the zenith. Emma pursued, levering herself carefully down the steps. Halfway, she gave up the attempt to descend upright and reversed, finishing the task monkey-fashion, her small behind giving an impression of marvellous diligence upon the work in hand. Paradine watched, fascinated by the spectacle, till he was hurled back by the impact of his son's body.
"Hi, Dad!" Scott shrieked.
Paradine recovered himself and regarded Scott with dignity. "Hi, yourself. Help me in to dinner. You've dislocated at least one of my hip joints."
But Scott was already tearing into the next room, where he stepped on Jane's new shoes in an ecstasy of affection, burbied an apology and rushed off to find his place at the dinner table. Paradine cocked up an eyebrow as he followed, Emma's pudgy hand desperately gripping his forefinger.
"Wonder what the young devil's been up to."
"No good, probably," Jane sighed. "Hello, darling. Let's see your ears."
"They're clean. Mickey licked 'em."
"Well, that Airedale's tongue is far cleaner than your ears," Jane pondered, making a brief examination. "Still, as long as you can hear, the dirt's only superficial."


"Fisshul?"
"Just a little, that means." Jane dragged her daughter to the table and inserted her legs into a high chair. Only lately had Emma graduated to the dignity of dining with the rest of the family, and she was, as Paradine remarked, all eaten up with pride by the prospect. Only babies spilled food, Emma had been told. As a result, she took such painstaking care in conveying her spoon to her mouth that Paradine got the jitters whenever he watched.
"A conveyor belt would be the thing for Emma," he suggested, pulling out a chair for Jane. "Small buckets of spinach arriving at her face at stated intervals."
Dinner proceeded uneventfully until Paradine happened to glance at Scott's plate. "Hello, there. Sick? Been stuffing yourself at lunch?"
Scott thoughtfully examined the food still left before him. "I've had all I need, Dad," he explained.
"You usually eat all you can hold, and a great deal more," Paradine said. "I know growing boys need several tons of foodstuff a day, but you're below par tonight. Feel O.K.?"
"Uh-huh. Honest, I've had all I need."
"All you want?"
"Sure. I eat different."
"Something they taught you at school?" Jane inquired. Scott shook his head solemnly.
"Nobody taught me. I found it out myself. I use spit."
"Try again," Paradine suggested. "It's the wrong word."
"Uh-s-saliva. Hm-m-m?"
"Uh-huh. More pepsin? Is there pepsin in the salivary juices, Jane? I forget."
"There's poison in mine," Jane remarked. "Rosalie's left lumps in the mashed potatoes again."
But Paradine was interested. "You mean you're getting everything possible out of your food-no wastage-and eating less?"
Scott thought that over. "I guess so. It's not just the sp-saliva. I sort of measure how much to put in my mouth at once, and what stuff to mix up. I dunno. I just do it."
"Hm-m-m," said Paradine, making a note to check up later. "Rather
a revolutionary idea." Kids often get screwy notions, but this one might