"Альфред Бестер. The Flowered Thundermug (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

He reached for the dial, looked up, met the nude's melting
glance, and smiled apologetically. "I beg your pardon," he
said, and began twisting the dial: 1-1-1, 1-1-2, 1-1-3, 1-2-1,
1-2-2, 1-2-3, and so on, each time trying the handle of the
safe, which had been cleverly disguised as the nude's
forefinger. At 3-2-1, the handle came down with a smart click.
The safe door opened, eviscerating, at it were, the lovely
belly. The cracksman reached in and brought out the Flowered
Thundermug. He contemplated it for a full minute.

A low voice spoke. "Remarkable, isn't it?"

The cracksman looked up quickly. A girl was standing in the
library door, examining him casually. She was tall and slender,
with chestnut hair and very dark-blue eyes. She was wearing a
revealing white sheath, and her clear skin gleamed under the
lights.

"Good evening, Miss Webb-Mrs.-?"

"Miss." She flicked the third finger of her left hand at
him.

"I'm afraid I didn't hear you come in."

"Nor I you." She strolled into the library. "You do think
it's remarkable, don't you? I mean, I hope you're not
disappointed."

"No, I'm not. It's unique."

"Who do you suppose designed it?"

"We'll never know."

"Do you think he didn't make many? Is that why it's so
rare?"

"It would be pointless to speculate, Miss Webb. That's
rather like asking how many colors an artist used in a
painting, or how many notes a composer used in an opera."

She flowed onto a lounge. "Cigarette, please? Are you by
any chance being condescending?"

"Not at all. Light?"

"Thank you."