"Kate Wilhelm - Winter Beach" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilhelm Kate)

тАЬI don't believe you.тАЭ He dialed the number.

Lasater turned to look out the window. The campus was a collage of red brick buildings, dirty snow, and
too many people of an age. God, how tired he would get of so many young people all the time with their
mini-agonies and mini-crises, and mini-triumphs. Unisex reigned here; in their dark winter garments they
all looked alike. The scene was like an exercise in perspective: same buildings, same snow, same vague
figures repeated endlessly. He listened to Pierson parrot his message about bird of prey, and a moment
later:

тАЬNever mind. Sorry to bother you. I won't wait. It's all right.тАЭ

Lasater smiled at the bleak landscape, but when he turned to the room there was no trace of humor on
his face. He retrieved the note paper, put it in an ashtray, and set it afire. After it was burned he crushed
the ashes thoroughly, then dumped them into the waste can. He held the pad aslant and studied the next
piece of paper, then slipped the pad into a pocket. He kept his amusement out of his voice when he said,
тАЬYou will never use that number again, or even remember that you saw such a number. In fact, this entire
visit is classified, and everything about it. Right?тАЭ

Pierson nodded miserably. Lasater felt only contempt for him now; he had not fought hard enough for
anything else. тАЬSo, you just tell her no dice on a leave of absence. You have about an hour before she'll
get here; you'll think of a dozen good reasons why your department can't do without her services.тАЭ He
picked up his coat and hat from the chair where he had tossed them and left without looking back.

Lyle Taney would never know what happened, he thought with satisfaction, pausing to put his coat on at
the stairs of the history department building. He went to the student union and had a malted milk shake,
picked up a poetry review magazine, bought a pen, and then went to his car and waited. Most of the
poetry was junk, but some of it was pretty good, better than he had expected. He reread one of the short
pieces. Nice. Then he saw her getting out of her car. Lyle Taney was medium height, a bit heavy for his
taste; he liked willowy women and she was curvy and dimply. Ten pounds, he estimated; she could lose
ten pounds before she would start to look gaunt enough to suit him. He liked sharp cheekbones and the
plane of a cheek without a suggestion of roundness. Her hair was short and almost frizzy it was so curly,
dark brown with just a suggestion of gray, as if she had frosted it without enough bleach to do a thorough
job. He knew so much about her that it would have given her a shock to realize anyone had recorded
such information and that it could be retrieved. He knew her scars, her past illnesses, her college records,
her income and expenses ... She was bouncy: he grinned at her tripping nimbly through the slush at the
curb before the building. That was nice, not too many women were still bouncy at her age: thirty-seven
years, four months, sixteen days.

She vanished inside the building. He glanced at his watch and made a bet with himself. Eighteen minutes.
It would take eighteen minutes. Actually it took twenty-two. When she reappeared, the bounce was
gone. She marched down the stairs looking straight ahead, plowed through the slush, crossed the street
without checking for traffic, daring anyone to touch her. She got to her car and yanked the door open,
slid in, and drove off too fast. He liked all that. No tears. No sentimental look around at the landscape.
Just good old-fashioned determination. Hugh Lasater liked to know everything about the people he used.
This was data about Lyle Taney that no one would have been able to tell him. He felt that he knew her a
little better now than he had that morning. He was whistling tunelessly as he turned on his key, started the
rented car, and left the university grounds. She would do, he told himself contentedly. She would do just
fine.
****
Lyle put on coffee and paced while she waited for it. On the table her book looked fragile suddenly, too