"Spider Robinson - The End of the Painbow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Spider)

dial to see what's on, every single channel will be showing commercials. Everybody knows this, and for
some reason nobody ever talks about it. (You don't want to tug too hard at an anomaly like that: your
universe could unravel like a cheap sock.) You can set your watch by it; you can watch your set by it; it
never failsтАФunless you're attempting to demonstrate the phenomenon to an unbeliever.
Until now. Either Eddie was lying, or the Duck hadтАФright before our very eyesтАФaccessed the
program scrawl just as it began to display the current listings. The most consistent example of Finagle's
Law in the universe lay in ruins.
"Jesus Christ and His Tympani Five," the Drink exclaimed.
And then things got weirder, real fast.

First, fireтАФ
Wanting to dramatically express his astonishment, Long-Drink attempted a histrionic gesture: he
clapped his hand to his bosom, like a silent-movie heroine, while rolling his eyes at the sky. (Being Irish,
he already frequently rolled his r's.) His right palm chanced to reach his chest first. There it encountered a
lump in his shirt pocket: the little plastic film can of strike-anywhere matches he likes to light on his
thumbnail, and all too often on his fly. The container happened to be full to capacity. A split-second after
his right palm struck it, his left palm slapped against his right hand. Perhaps some unlikely harmonic
resonance occurred. The entire canister of matches went up, with more than enough force to blow off the
lid and send a fiery column of flaring matchsticks high into the air, like munchkin fireworks. Well it was
for the Drink that he had tilted his head backтАФthe rising barrage missed his chin and sailed high in the air,
spreading like a fountain of flame. Only one of the forty-odd burning matches fell back onto his head and
set his hair on fire.
Which made it unanimous. There were forty-odd people in the room, kind of clustered near the bar,
and not one of us had our hair set on fire by any moreтАФor any lessтАФthan a single match. It looked for a
second as if two matches were going to land on Tommy Janssen, but he made a wild attempt to bat them
away and managed to knock one of them high over the TV set so Fast Eddie wouldn't be left out. The
room began to fill with the smell of burning hair. And the sound of forty-odd reluctant Apostles, beginning
to speak in tongues ...
Then, waterтАФ
Well, beer. Luckily we are all experienced drinkers: those who held stronger beverages had presence
of mind enough not to use them. But the alcohol content of beer is low enough to permit its use as an
emergency fire extinguisher. Lucky us! тАФthere was precisely enough beer on the loose to just wet down
every single head. Tom Hauptman and I got each other. Since Fast Eddie had a straight Bushmill's in his
hand, three or four helpful souls sent their dregs his way; all four missed and soaked the TV, which
sparked and died. Eddie, meanwhile, solved his own problem: it was not his hair but his cabby's cap that
was burning; he tore it off and trampled it in the sawdust.
Then, iceтАФ
тАФas we all turned as one, with beer trickling down our necks, to glare at the Duck.
He smiled. "Hell," he said contentedly, "you probably think that was weird."
Those holding drinks stronger than beer now reached a consensus that their time, too, had come. The
Duck's range and bearing were taken; arms cockedтАФ
Suddenly the Duck was on his feet, eyes flashing. "Would you guys like to see something really
weird?"
Consensus changed; there were much more practical things to do with hard liquor. "Don't see why."
"Not me." "No, thanks Duckster, maybe later, eh?" "Well, it was a hot night anyway." "I love a good
beer shower."
And folks sort of went back about their business.

The Duck turned to me, indicated his empty glass and held up one finger. I drew him another
Rickard's, and waved my hand over it to indicate that it was on the house. He nodded thanks, once. "To