"Robert F. Young - Goddess in Granite" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

There was an unusual constellation almost directly overhead. More than
anything else, it made him think of a man astride a horse. The man carried an
elongated object on his shoulder, and the object could have been any one of a
number of things, depending on the way you looked at the stars that comprised
itтАФa rifle, perhaps, or a staff; maybe even a fishing pole.
To Marten, it looked like a scythe. . . .
He turned on his side, luxuriating in his tiny oasis of warmth. The
VirginтАЩs chin was soft with starlight now, and the night slept in soft and
silent splendor. . . . That was one of his own lines, he thought drowsilyтАФa
part of that fantastic hodgepodge of words and phrases he had put together
eleven years ago under the title of Rise Up, My Love! A part of the book that
had brought him fame and fortuneтАФand Lelia.
Lelia . . . She seemed so long ago, and in a way she was. And yet, in
another way, a strange, poignant way, she was yesterdayтАФ

The first time he saw her she was standing in one of those little antique
bars so popular then in Old York. Standing there all alone, tall, dark-haired,
Junoesque, sipping her mid-afternoon drink as though women like herself were
the most common phenomena in the galaxy.
He had been positive, even before she turned her head, that her eyes were
blue, and blue they proved to be; blue with the blueness of mountain lakes in
spring, blue with the beauty of a woman waiting to be loved. Boldly, he walked
over and stood beside her, knowing it was now or never, and asked if he might
buy her a drink.
To his astonishment, she accepted. She did not tell him till later that she
had recognized him. He was so na├пve at the time that he did not even know that
he was a celebrity in Old York, though he should have known. His book
certainly had been successful enough.
He had knocked it off the preceding summerтАФthe summer the Ulysses returned
from Alpha Virginis IX; the summer he quit his berth as cabin boy, forever
cured of his ambition to be a spaceman. During the interim consumed by the
voyage, his mother had remarried again; and when he found out, he rented a
summer cottage in Connecticut as far away from her as he could get. Then,
driven by forces beyond his ken, he sat down and began to write.
Rise Up, My Love! had dealt with the stellar odyssey of a young adventurer
in search of a substitute for God and with his ultimate discovery of that
substitute in a woman. The reviewers shouted тАЬEpic!тАЭ and the Freudian
psychologists who, after four centuries of adversity, still hadnтАЩt given up
psychoanalyzing writers shouted тАЬDeath-wish!тАЭ The diverse appraisals combined
happily to stir up interest in the limited literary world and to pave the way
for a second printing and then a third. Overnight, Marten had become that most
incomprehensible of all literary phenomenaтАФa famous first-novelist.
But he hadnтАЩt realized, till now, that his fame involved physical
recognition. тАЬI read your book, Mr. Marten,тАЭ the dark-haired girl standing
beside him said. тАЬI didnтАЩt like it.тАЭ
тАЬWhatтАЩs your name?тАЭ he asked. Then: тАЬWhy?тАЭ
тАЬLelia Vaughn . . . Because your heroine is impossible.тАЭ
тАЬI donтАЩt think sheтАЩs impossible,тАЭ Marten said.
тАЬYouтАЩll be telling me next that she has a prototype.тАЭ
тАЬMaybe I will.тАЭ The bartender served them, and Marten picked up his glass