"Joe Haldeman - Lindsay and the Red City Blues" - читать интересную книгу автора (Haldeman Joe)

teens, Scott estimated; that, and the bizarre prospect of screwing a fully clothed masked
stranger, stimulated him instantly, urgently.
"All right," he said, hoarse. "I'll meet you outside."
She watched with alert curiosity as he fumbled with the condom package, and the only
sound she made throughout their encounter was to giggle when he fitted the device over his
penis. It was manufactured to accommodate the complete range of possible sizes, and on
Scott it had a couple of inches to spare.
This wonder condom, first-class special-delivery French letter is coated with a fluid so
similar to natural female secretions, so perfectly intermiscible and isotonic, that it could fool
the inside of a vagina. But Scott's ran out of juice in seconds, and the aloof lady's physiology
didn't supply any replacement, so he had to fall back on saliva and an old familiar fantasy. It
was a long dry haul, the bedding straw crunching monotonously under them, she constantly
shifting to more comfortable positions as he angrily pressed his weight into her, finally a
draining that was more hydrostatics than passion, which left him jumpy rather than satisfied.
When he rolled off her the condom stayed put, there being more lubrication inside it than
out. The woman extracted it and, out of some obscure motive, twisted a knot in the end and
dropped it behind the bed.
When he'd finished dressing, she held out her hand for a tip. He laughed and told her in
English that he was the one who ought to be paid, he'd done all the work, but gave her five
dirham anyhow, for the first rush of excitement and her vulnerable eyes.
Abdul was not waiting for him. He tried to interrogate the caftan dealer in French, but got
only an interesting spectrum of shrugs. He stepped out onto the street, saw no trace of the
little scoundrel, went back inside, and gave the dealer a five while asking the way to Djemaa
El Fna. He nodded once and wrote it down on a slip of paper in clear, copybook English.
"You speak English?"
"No," he said with an Oxford vowel.
Scott threaded his way through the maze of narrow streets, carefully memorizing the
appearance of each corner in case he had to backtrack. No street was identified by name. The
sun was down far enough for the medina to be completely in shadow, and it was getting
cooler. He stopped at a counter to drink a bottle of beer, and a pleasant lassitude fell over
him, the first time he had not felt keyed up since the Casablanca airport. He strolled on,
taking a left at the corner of dye shop and motor scooter.
Halfway down the street, Abdul stood with seven or eight other boys, chattering away,
laughing.
Scott half ran toward the group and Abdul looked up, startled, when he roared "You little
bastard!"—but Abdul only smiled and muttered something to his companions, and all of
them rushed him.
Not a violent man by any means, Scott had nevertheless suffered enough at the hands of
this boy, and he planted his feet, balled his fists, bared his teeth, and listened with his whole
body to the sweet singing adrenaline. He'd had twelve hours of hand-to-hand combat
instruction in basic training, the first rule of which (If you're outnumbered, run) he ignored;
the second rule of which (Kick, don't punch) he forgot, and swung a satisfying roundhouse
into the first face that came within reach, breaking lips and teeth and one knuckle (he would
realize later); then assayed a side-kick to the groin, which only hit a hip but did put the
victim out of the fray; touched the ground for balance and bounced up, shaking a child off
his right arm while swinging his left at Abdul's neck, and missing; another side-kick, this
time straight to a kidney, producing a good loud shriek; Abdul hanging out of reach, boys all
over him, kicking, punching, finally dragging him to his knees; Abdul stepping forward and
kicking him in the chest, then the solar plexus; the taste of dust as someone keeps kicking his
head; losing it, losing it, fading out as someone takes his wallet, then from the other pocket,