"Mack Reynolds - Tomorrow Might Be Different" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reynolds Mack)

He pushed a still foaming glass of wine into Mike's right hand, pressed a large chunk of dark bread
deeply covered with gray beluga caviar into his left.

Here we go again, Mike sighed inwardly. Surely this season would end with liver trouble, not to speak
of ulcers.

However, Catherina Saratov smiled at him and that was something. She had the land of smile that
looked as though she meant it. Anybody can smile-kind of. He could feel hers go deep down within,
something he hadn't thought possible in mid tourist season.

He let Galushko refill his glass and watched as the girl dashed for the water. Her buttocks were as
interesting as had been her bosom. He wouldn't mind getting into that. He wondered if he would have a
chance. She didn't particularly seem to have a man in tow.

Chapter II
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When Mike Edwards was able to escape, he made his way over to the escalator that took you up from
the Mediterranean beach to themiramarnear the old Moorish tower which originally gave the formerly
small fishing village its name. It was, for all practical purposes, all that remained of the once art colony,
save a couple of blocks about the town plaza. Today, Torremolinos was one of the largest resorts on the
Costa del Sol of Spain, which stretched from Malaga to Gibraltar, and accommodated hundreds of
thousands of visitors each year-especially Russkies.

He went on up Calle San Miguel, teeming with its tourist shoppers, and made his way to the Espadon
Hotel. That afternoon he was going to have to line up some of his hundreds of clients for a side trip to
Granada and the sightseeing tour of the Alhambra. He didn't look forward to it. The first few dozen times
weren't so bad, but when you've gone through the Alhambra on several hundred occasions you got to
hating the Moors as much as Ferdinand and Isobel must have.

He was still slightly light-headed from the unaccustomed drinking of cold champagne under the broiling
Spanish sun with no more on his stomach than the Continental breakfast of coffee, hard roll, butter and
marmalade. He had got away after three glasses, about par for the course when a Russkie caught you.
He wondered how in the devil they could keep up the pace.

He stopped off at the main bar for a Fernet Branca in hopes of settling his stomach, got up on a stool
and gave Manuel his order.

On the stool next to him sat another of his clients, this one an American, if Mike remembered correctly.
He prayed inwardly and hopelessly that the other would leave him alone. He might as well have prayed
for rain on the moon.

The other said, "How's it going, Mr. Edwards? I don't exactly envy you your job."

Mike said, "Just fine. Lovely weather, isn't it?"