"Poor Planet" - читать интересную книгу автора (McIntosh J T)

After lunch I strolled round to ProsserТs. By this time most of the snow was
brown slush.
It was just as well, I reflected, looking at the people in the streets, that I
was forty-eight and no longer interested in girls. For there seemed no prospect
of ever seeing a pretty girl in Arneville, at any rate a girl looking pretty. In
boots, heavy coats and fur hoods, with faces pinched by the cold, women of
sixteen, thirty-six and fifty-six looked much the same. None of them seemed to
wear makeup, and since heating in most buildings was only moderately efficient,
heavy, unattractive clothes were worn inside as well as out.
The young lady in ProsserТs, who might have been attractive if she tried, didnТt
seem to be trying. On top of a dress which was all right in itself she wore an
assortment of woolen jackets in various colors and shapes. None of the latter
coincided with hers.
СOpera?У she said. ФYou must mean The Arne Story. ThatТs the only opera I know.У
СThatТs it,У I said.
СA score? ThatТs the words and music, isnТt it? You want to buy a copy?У
СAn original copy, if possible.У She went away and returned, after an
interminable delay, with a paper-covered score. I looked at the date. It was a
new edition published only the year before.
When I tried patiently to explain that what I really wanted was a copy of this
opera printed a long time ago, she stared blankly and then brought a small, bald
knowledgeable man to talk to me.
СYes, this is & revised edition, sir,У he agreedТ. ФQuite extensively revised.
YouТre a foreigner, I take it? Yes, I thought so. You see, since thereТs only
one native opera, and such a great masterpiece at that, itТs constantly being
revised and improved. I believe the original version of The Arne Story was quite
different from the version thatТs performed nowЧУ
СSo I understand. ThatТs why IТd like to see the original.У
СYou could try a library. OrЧmaybe there would be an old copy at JeromeТs. ItТs
a little place that keeps a lot of old . Е musical instruments and things like
that.У
The little knowledgeable man gave me detailed directions, and I trudged through
the snow again along streets, which became narrower and shorter and dimmer. I
might almost have been in DickensТs London.
At last I found JeromeТs, which proved to be a tiny shop with a minute window
offering a keyhole view of a startling variety of cornets, trumpets, trombones
and mutes. I pushed the door open, stooping to enter, and blinked at the girl in
charge.
She was the last, positively the last thing I expected in a place like JeromeТs,
in a city like Arneville, on a planet like Solitaire. She was very young, a
nymphet, very pretty, and she was quite smartly dressed.
СGood afternoon,У she said,smiling pleasantly.
СFive minutes ago,У I said, ФI didnТt think so. But now I see it is.У
She laughed, being young enough to take naive delight in a frank, sincere
compliment. It could only have been a matter of months since men started to pay
her compliments; it might be years yet before experience taught her to look gift
horses in the mouth.
She was a small brunette with the kind of slim, flawless twinkling legs which
only nymphets possess. Above the legs was a short black skirt, and above the
skirt a tight white blouse. Above the blouse was a pert, pretty little face