"Alan Dean Foster - Glory Lane" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

viewed him with anything close to tolerance were the dozen or so Navajos
who formed two teams of their own. Most of them had the guts to wear
their hair braided, in the traditional fashion. They were in no posi-tion to
criticize another's coiffure.

Despite the growls and grumbles, no one started toward him. He took a
seat at the snack bar counter. A second waitress had emerged from the
bathroom subsequent to his arrival. Now they were debating which of them
would be unlucky enough to have to serve him. He was glad when the
younger one reluctantly approached. She spoke with obvious reluctance.
"Can I help you, sir?"

Sir. Riot, he thought. "Well now, that's a leading question, isn't it? I mean,
it presupposes that I need help and that you could be of some assistance
to me without even knowing what my problem is. Fascinating concept. You
aren't by any chance telepathic, are you?"

Like a cow pausing with its cud, she halted her gum in mid-chew and gaped
at him. "Huh?"

He sighed. "Got any Cherry Coke?"

"Cherry Coke?" She relaxed a little and managed a smile. "Oh, yeah." Her
gums started working again as center control pushed GO. "What size?"

"Half a liter, but you're probably out of that." He smiled back at her. "Just
make it medium."

"Medium, sure." She started to turn back toward the fountain, then
hesitated, unsure whether to ask the question and, if so, how. Finally she
just pushed ahead. "Uh, you got any money?"

"Money, money." Seeth's brow furrowed and he took on the appearance of a
philosopher sunk deep in contem-plation. "Let me see now: money." He dug
into a pocket and began emptying the contents on the counter.

The pile included a handful of prophylactics, a very small but offensively
engraved pocket knife that made her eyes widen, some pennies, a couple of
quarters, a Mexican fifty-centavo piece, and some purplish-gray lint. He
shoved the pennies and the quarters across the counter.

"That's not enough." She said it tentatively. At any moment he expected
her to grab one of the butter knives and back up against the drink
dispenser to defend herself. He was enjoying himself hugely.

"Not enough? Hey, hang on." He made a show of fumbling with his back
pockets. "I know I've got my American Express platinum card back here
somewhere. Wanna help me search?" That one went right by her.

"Here." He extracted a card and passed it to her. She took it carefully, as