"Encounter, The by Kate Wilhelm" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nebula Award Stories 7)

"Come on, honey, I'm going there, too," the driver said. He
pulled on gloves and turned up his collar. He took her arm firmly,
transferred the bag to his other hand, then turned to look at the
other three or four people in the station. "Anyone else?"
Diner. Glaring lights, jukebox noise without end, the smell of
hamburgers and onions, rank coffee and doughnuts saturated with
grease. Everyone smoking. Someone would have cards probably,
someone a bottle. The woman would sing or cry, or get a fight
going. She was a nasty one, he could tell. She'd be bored within
an hour. She'd have the guys groping her under the table, in the
end booth. The man half turned, his back shielding her from view,
his hand slipping between her buttons, under the blouse, under
the slip, the slippery smooth nylon, the tightness of the bra, unfas-
tening it with his other hand. Her low laugh, busy hands. The hard

nipple between his fingers now, his own responsive hardness. She
had turned to look at the stranded passengers when the driver
spoke, and she caught Crane's glance.
"It's a long wait for a Scranton bus, honey," she said.
"I'd just get soaked going to the diner," Crane said, and turned
his back on her. His hand hurt, and he opened his clenched fingers
and rubbed his hands together hard.
"I sure as hell don't want to wait all night in this rat hole,"
someone else said. "Do you have lockers? I can't carry all this
gear."
"Lock them up in the office for you," the ticket agent said.
He pulled out a bunch of keys and opened a door at the end of
the room. A heavy-set man followed him, carrying three suit-
cases. They returned; the door squeaked. The agent locked it
again.
"Now, you boys will hold me up, won't you? I don't want to fall
down in all that snow."
"Doll, if you fall on your pretty little ass, I'll dry you off person-
ally," the driver said.
"Oh, you will, will you?"
Crane tightened his jaw, trying not to hear them. The outside
door opened and a blast of frigid air shook the room. A curtain of
snow swept across the floor before the door banged again, and the
laughing voices were gone.
"You sure you want to wait here?" the ticket agent asked. "Not
very warm in here. And I'm going home in a minute, you know."
"I'm not dressed to walk across the street in this weather, much
less four blocks," Crane said.
The agent still hesitated, one hand on his coat. He looked
around, as if checking on loose valuables. There was a woman on
one of the benches. She was sitting with her head lowered, hands
in her lap, legs crossed at the ankles. She wore a dark cloth coat,
and her shoes were skimpier than Crane's, three crossing strips of
leather attached to paper-thin soles. Black cloth gloves hid her
hands. She didn't look up, in the silence that followed, while the