"Mack Reynolds - Tomorrow Might Be Different" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reynolds Mack)

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Chapter I

Mike Edwards plowed his way through the dazzling white sand towards the Russkie party as quickly as
he could.

"Just a moment, Miss," he called out in Russian. "Just a moment, please!" Hurrying was difficult, he was
in ordinary dress and wore shoes, rather than beachwear.

One of the girls, the very attractive one, had come onto the beach in a robe, one of the flamboyant new
textiles the Russians were producing that all but knocked your eyes out. It was his private opinion that the
Russian taste was all in their mouth; but, then, that had applied since the days of the Czars.

It was when she had slipped out of her robe that Mike's eyes had popped. Her tiny trunks left nothing
whatsoever to the imagination, but that wasn't it. She wore no top at all. It would have been hard for her
to be any more naked.

Surfeited with womanhood as Mike was in the tourist season, he still had to admit that she made a
striking appearance indeed, not too big, not too small, youthfully firm, a body just short of lush, and her
nipples were coral pinkтАж But this wasSpain!

He came closer and said, anxiously apologetic, "Look here, MissтАФтАФ"

She was frowning questioningly at him, no more self-conscious than a two year old in its bath. "Saratov,"
she said. "Catherina Saratov."

She took him in. What she saw was a rather gangly man in his early thirties, pleasant of face, though it
was now somewhat anxious; rumpled of hair, which was brown; dark blue of eyes, which were
somewhat on the sincere and worried side; six feet tall, about one hundred and sixty-five.

Mike Edwards placed her vaguely. In his position, it was absolutely impossible to learn the names of all
of his charges. They came for periods running from two weeks to a month, seldom longer, and in a
season's time, he had literally thousands on his hands. However, they had sat at the same table at a
Horizonal Holidays party the other night. He had thought, even then, that she was the epitome of Slavic
beauty. The ultra-blondness, just short of platinum blonde (but natural), fair-skinned as only the very
northern people are fair skinned, impossibly blue-eyed, excellent carriage, as though she had been ballet
trained, and without the heft of the average Russkie. Contrary to much popular opinion, the Russian is a
blonde rather than a brunette and when a Russian is beautiful there is nothing to surpass her in the
Caucasian world.