"Harlan Ellison - Spider Kiss" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ellison Harlan)

Kiss by Harlan Ellison 17 He moved out into the crowd, reached her and
tapped her shoulder. .Miss?. The wide, green eyes turned up to him,
registered nothing. .Miss, Stag would like to meet you.. He said it with no
feeling, with, in fact, a definite absence of inflection in hopes she might
be scared off. But they never were. Any of them. Her breath went in like a
train through a tunnel, fast and sharp and leaving emptiness behind it.
.Stag? Me?. He nodded. No encouragement, no deterrent. She said something to
a girl beside her, a fat girl with pimples (why did the best-looking ones
always come with their comparison-friends, so they looked that much better?),
and gave her the Stag Preston We Love You sign. Then she turned, with Roman
candles in her eyes, and followed Shelly Morgenstern into the theatre. Four
years, he thought. Four years, and how did it all start? Was it that request
from the Kentucky State Fair for Colonel Jack Freeport to judge the talent
contest? Had it started then, when they’d met Stag in Louisville? Or did it
go further back, much further back to the days when Shelly had been trying to
break away from the orthodox enslavement of his home, when he had discovered
he could no longer believe in the terrible God of his father, and worshipped
more easily at the heavenly throne of Success (and Money is his profit)? Did
it go back to Jack Freeport, who needed more, more, more of everything ... to
rebuild a name that had been shattered as far back as the burning of Atlanta?
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Had it begun with hungers, or with simple supply-anddemand? Spider Kiss by
Harlan Ellison 18 He knew how it had started. And as he walked the little
redhead into the lion’s mouth, he thought about it ... about the four years.
Well tell it, then. Tell it, but make it quick. We’ve still got three shows
to do. Spider Kiss by Harlan Ellison 19 Two Great White Father and the
ferret. That was how they looked from the corner of the eye, in that
side-of-sight glance hurriedly thrown by people at airports. First came the
big man in the white linen suit. He paused at the head of the aluminum
stairs, mopping his desert brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. Even as his
hand came away from his face, the armpits of his white-on-white shirt
darkened through with perspiration. Almost maliciously, he turned his face up
to the sun, and the Louisville heat greeted him inhospitably. .Cursed
state,. he muttered, .always said it should have been plowed under by God..
He spoke with a thick Georgia accent, a touch of nobility, a touch of
arrogance. He was big in small ways. His face was almost leonine, with a
snowy nimbus of hair capping his massive head splendidly. His hands were
blocky, yet had a suppleness suggestive of fine Swiss watchmaking or brain
surgery. He stood momentarily, staring from bleached-out eyes.the image of
Great White Father.framed against the open port of the big Eastern Convair
440; he surveyed the crowd jammed against the fence. With a satisfied tone
he called back over his shoulder, .Wharton sent no one, Shelly. I don’t see
any badges from the fair.. Then he deplaned from the twin-engine Silver
Falcon. Spider Kiss by Harlan Ellison 20 Behind him, squinting, the wiry
Palm Beach-suited ferret shied from the gagging humidity. It was not so much
the olive coloring of his lean, hard face as the diamond-intensity of his
black eyes that gave the impression of stealth ... deviousness ...