"Smith, E E Doc - Subspace 01 - Subspace Explorers V2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith E. E. Doc)

"As the pit, Eddie. Take over. You've picked out your girl-friend for the trip, I suppose?"

While taking the bucket seat, Eddie said, "Not yet. I got sidetracked watching Bobby
Warner. . ."

A wave of psychic force hit Deston's mind hard enough almost to turn it inside out; but he
clenched his teeth and held his pose.

. . . and after seeing her just walk across the lounge once, all the other women looked
like a clime's worth of catmeat. Talk about poetry in motion!" Eddie rolled his eyes, made
motions with his hands, and whistled expressively. "Oh, brother!"

"Okay, okay, don't blow a fuse," Deston said, in what he hoped was his usual tone and
manner. "I know. You'll love her undyingly-all this trip, maybe."

"Huh? How dumb can you get? D'you think I'd even try to play footsie with Barbara
Warner?"

"You play footsie with the pick of the passenger list, so who's Barbara Warner, to daunt
Don Juan Eddie Thompson, the Tomcat of Space?"

"I thought you knew some of the facts of life, Babe. She's Warner's only child, is all.
Warner of WarnOil; the biggest in all space. Operates in every solar system known to
man and never puts down a dry hole. All gushers that blow their rigs clear up into the
stratosphere. Everybody wonders how come. The poop is, his wife's an oil-witch, is why
he lugs her around with him all the time. Why else would he?"

"Maybe be loves her. It happens, you know."

"Huh? After twenty-some years of her? Comet-gas! Anyway, would you have the sublime
gall to make a pass at WarnOil's heiress, with more millions in her own sock than you've
got dimes? If you ever made passes, I mean." "Uh-uh. Negative. For sure."

"You nor me neither. But what a dish! Brother, what a lovely, luscious, toothsome dish!"

"Cheer up; you'll be raving about another one tomorrow," Deston said callously, turning
away.

"I don't know . . . maybe; but even if I do, she won't be anything like her," Eddie
mourned, to the closing door. Deston didn't go to his cabin; didn't take off his sidearm.
He didn't even think of it; the .41 automatic at his hip was as much a part of his uniform
as his pants.

Entering the lounge, he did not have to look around. She was playing contract, and as
eves met caves and she rose to her feet a shock-wave went through him that made him
feel as though every hair he had was standing straight on end.

She was about five feet four. Her hair was a startlingly brilliant artificial yellow; her eyes
a deep, cool blue. She could have made the Miss Western Hemisphere finals.