"Charles L. Harness - The Rose" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harness Charles L)

thought up today: 'Music owes its meaning to its ambiguity.' Remember, folks, an axiom is just a paradox
the professor's already got hold of. The cost of this dazzling display...don't crowd there, mister..."

Anna felt a relaxing warmth flowing over her mind, washing at the encrusted strain of the past hour. She
smiled and elbowed her way through the throng and on down the street, where a garishly lighted sign,
bat-wing doors, and a forlorn cluster of waiting women announced the next attraction:

"FOR MEN ONLY. Daring blindfold exhibitions and variety entertainments continuously."

Inside, a loudspeaker was blaring: "Thus we have seen how to compose the ideal end-game problem in
chess. And now, gentlemen, for the small consideration of an additional quarter..."
But Anna's attention was now occupied by a harsh cawing from across the street.

"Love philters! Works on male or female! Any age! Never fails!"

She laughed aloud. Good old Matt! He had foreseen what these glaring multifaceted nonsensical stimuli
would do for her. Love philters! Just what she needed!

The vendress of love philters was of ancient vintage, perhaps seventy-five years old. Above cheeks of
wrinkled leather her eyes glittered speculatively. And how weirdly she was clothed! Her bedraggled
dress was a shrieking purple. And under that dress was another of the same hue, though perhaps a little
faded. And under that, still another.

"That's why they call me Violet," cackled the old woman, catching Anna's stare. "Better come over and
let me mix you one."

But Anna shook her head and passed on, eyes shining. Fifteen minutes later, as she neared the central
Via area, her receptive reverie was interrupted by the outburst of music ahead.

Good! Watching the street dancers for half an hour would provide a highly pleasant climax to her
escapade. Apparently there wasn't going to be any man in a polka dot suit. Matt was going to be
disappointed, but it certainly wasn't her fault she hadn't found him.

There was something oddly familiar about that music.

She quickened her pace, and then, as recognition came, she began to run as fast as her crouching back
would permit. This was her music—the prelude to Act III of her ballet!

She burst through the mass of spectators lining the dance square. The music stopped. She stared out into
the scattered dancers, and what she saw staggered the twisted frame of her slight body. She fought to get
air through her vacuously-wide mouth.

In one unearthly instant, a rift had threaded its way through the dancer-packed square, and a pasty white
face, altogether spectral, had looked down that open rift into hers. A face over a body that was
enveloped in a strange flowing gown of shimmering white. She thought he had also been wearing a white
academic mortar-board, but the swarming dancers closed in again before she could be sure.

She fought an unreasoning impulse to run.

Then, as quickly as it had come, logic reasserted itself; the shock was over. Odd costumes were no rarity