"Robert Frezza - McClendon's Syndrome" - читать интересную книгу автора (Frezza Robert)

An Unexpected Party;
or, Ill-Met in a Dank Bar
A few tables away, Dinky the piano player was trying to learn "As Time Goes By." He was
making a hash of it.
I whipped a Brazil nut out of a bowl and whacked it open with a sap borrowed for the
occasion. The bowl was marked with the Prancing Pony Bar and Grill logo on one side and
had "Squirrel Food" printed on the other.
A glass of limewater slid across the table, spun around twice, and stopped artistically
beside my right hand. " 'Lo, Harry," I said without looking.
Harry, the Prancing Pony's proprietor, leaned across the table, which trembled
slightly. He grinned. "Hello, Admiral." Clad from head to toe in Lincoln green, Harry could
have passed for the bottom half of a very large tree. Portions of his green suit were covered
with leaflike tendrils, which enhanced the effect only slightly.
I pitched the nut at him. "It's Journeyman MacKay to you, O fat innkeeper who only
remembers his name because people shout it at him all day."
For some reason, Harry loves this line and encourages me to use it. His face broke
out in various interesting directions. "Roger that, Ken." He eased himself into a chair.
"How're they cooking?"
I sighed. "They're cooking, Harry. They're still cooking." In three trips to Schuyler's
World, I'd spent a fair amount of time in Harry's bar and figured out most of his more obvious
peculiarities. I pointed my thumb toward the ceiling. "You know, Harry. About this 'Admiral'
bit—the itinerant ship I have the misfortune to crew is far more likely to be mistaken for
orbiting junk than a Navy vessel, and since neither my civilian career as a journeyman
spacer nor my military career as a reservist seems to be sprouting jets..."
Harry waited expectantly.
I figuratively threw up my hands. "Oh, skip it."
Deep disappointment welled up in Harry's eyes. Harry knows I'm an ensign in the
inactive Navy reserve, which probably gives me more social cachet than most of Harry's
clientele. Harry likes all things military and enjoys bumping people he likes up a grade or
so—in my case from ensign to admiral. Harry is a frustrated jet jockey.
I softened the blow for him. "Tell you what, Harry, I'll roll you double or nothing."
We used his dice, so two limewaters went on my tab. "You shouldn't be so hard on
the Scupper. She's not so bad," Harry said complacently.
"She's a cut above space debris," I conceded.
He shrugged. "I'm surprised to see you tonight. I thought you said you were heading
out."
I waved my hands expressively. "Davie Lloyd Ironsides changed his mind for about
the fourth time this week, so we're staying here an extra day or so. Davie Lloyd the Iron-Ass
is getting on my nerves a bit more than usual. I keep hoping he'll jam his pipe in the wrong
orifice or something to break the monotony."
"I'm glad you decided to drop by. I figured it was going to be a dull night. Nice of you,"
he said, staring at one patron who suddenly decided that he didn't need a drink right that
minute.
"The way I roll, you ought to pay me to stop in," I told him. "By choice, I'd have been in
Callahan's Place, swilling your competitor's brew, but Elaine O'Day preempted that watering
hole by virtue of seniority, intending to cuddle anything that could walk, fly, or crawl."
"You know, Ken, I always thought torchship crews were supposed to cling like sand in
cement," Harry observed.
I shuddered. "You must not remember Elaine. In any case, my shipmates avoid laying
eyes on each other dirtside, and O'Day is not necessarily my first choice as a shift partner."