"David Gerrold - Love Story in Three Acts" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gerrold David)

"Aaaa," said John and padded into the bathroom. As he stood there, he gazed dourly at his hands. He
could still see the imprint of the monitor bands on his wrists.
Every time they did it, she had to know, so they used the damned bands; and every time the score
was lower than before—and so they both knew. Who needed a machine to tell him when he was
enjoying himself in bed? You knew when it was good and you knew when it was bad. So who needed
the machine?
He finished and flushed the toilet, then splashed his hands briefly under the faucet—more from a sense
of duty than from any of cleanliness. He shook off the excess water, and padded out of the bathroom,
not even bothering to turn off the light.
Marsha was sitting up in bed, still puffing on her cigarette. She took it out of her mouth and blew
smoke at him, "Thirty-four percent. We've never gone that low before. When are you going to listen to
some sense, John, and opt for the other unit?"
"I'm not a puppet—and I'm not going to let anyone make me one either!… Be damned if I'm going to
let some damn fool sweaty-handed technician plug wires into me…" He started casting around for his
slippers.
"At least talk to them, John—it won't kill you. Find out about it, before you say it's no good. Rose
Schwartz and her husband got one and she says it's the greatest. She wouldn't be without it now."
Marsha paused, brushed a straggling hair back over her forehead—and accidentally dropped cigarette
ash on the sheets. He turned away in disgust while she brushed at it ineffectually, leaving a dim gray
smudge.
John found one of his slippers and began pulling it on angrily. "At least go and find out about it…?"
she asked. No answer.
"John…?"
He kept tugging at his slipper, "Leave me alone, will you—I don't need any more goddamn
machines!"
She threw herself back against the pillow. The hell you don't."
He straightened up momentarily—stopped looking for his other slipper and glared at her, "I don't
need a machine to tell me how to screw!"
She returned his stare, "Then why the hell does our score keep dropping? We've never gone this low
before."
"Maybe, if you'd brush your teeth—"
"Maybe, if you'd admit that—"
"Aaaa," he said, cutting her off, and bent down to look under the bed.
 She softened her tone, leaned toward him, 'John…? Will you talk to the man at least? Will you?" He
didn't answer; she went shrill again, "I'm talking to you! Are you going to talk to the man?"
John found his other slipper and straightened up, "No, dammit! I'm not going to talk to the man—and
I'm not going to talk to you either, unless you start talking about something else. Besides, we can't afford
it. Now, are you going to fix me my breakfast?"
She heaved herself out of the bed, pausing only to stub out her cigarette. "I'll get you your
breakfast—but we can too afford it." She snatched her robe from where it hung on the door and
stamped from the room.
John glared after her, too angry to think of an answer. "Aaaa," he said, and began looking for his
undershorts.

Act Two
When he got back from lunch, there was a man waiting in his reception room, a neat-looking man
with a moustache and slicked-back hair. He rose, "Mr. Russell…?"
John paused, "Yes…?"
"I believe you wished to see me…?"
"Do I? Who're you?"