"Mack Reynolds - Once Departed" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reynolds Mack)

can find your own," and wandered off.

Quint laughed in easy self-deprecation. "Don't tell me I've got a fan."

Digby said earnestly, "Listen, those three or four articles you did on
segregation. You know what they did in my home state? They ended
segregation there. It was laughed out of existence. Listen, those articles
were damn good."

Quint was embarrassed. "Well, thanks," he said. He hated this sort of
thing. One of the reasons he lived abroad was so that he could avoid
gushing readers who seemed to be able to find considerably more message
in his columns and articles than he usually intended to put into them.

He said, "Shall we join the party? From here on in, you're on your own.
Anybody might be here and you probably know as many of the guests as I
do. The last party the Dempseys threw, the guest of honor was the head of
the anarchist underground in Spain, sort of a left-over from Spanish Civil
War days. While the police were searching for him on the
streets—tracking down rumors he was in town—we were drinking
champagne with him up here." Quint added dryly, "He told us what he
and his buddies figured on doing to us decadent capitalists after the
anarchists took over."

Bart Digby said, "Ronald told me they liked to base their get-togethers
on controversial figures. Any rate, thanks again, uh, Quint. I guess the
party's center is over in there."

'That's pronounced bar," Quint told him. "See you later."

Quint cornered himself a Scotch at the commercial size bar which
dominated the Dempsey living room, and began drifting around through
the shrill, milling guests. He would have preferred Fundador brandy, but
the Dempseys were of the breed who drank nothing of Spanish origin—at
least not so long as they were in Spain. He had a sneaking suspicion that
when they made trips to Scotland they ordered Fundador in bars and
hotels, and that probably they drank French cognac in the States, and
bourbon in France. He brought out a tiny notebook and scribbled a few
lines in it. Might make a gag bit of business for the column.

He spotted his host, Ferd Dempsey, at the far side of the long room in
heated discussion with two other obvious Americans and turned off in
another direction. Ferd was in his arguing stage. Two drinks more and
he'd start reciting quatrains from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. At that
point, Quint usually made a practice of going home.

Somebody said, "Hi, Quint. Long time, no see." The words were
American but the accent was Spanish.

He turned and said, "Hello, Senor Garcia."