"Robert F. Young - Thirty Days Had September" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

replaced by furious resentment. Hastily he returned his attention to Miss Jones.
"Westerns are the rage now, Miss Jones," he explained. "It's sort of a revival of
the early TV period. People like them, so naturally sponsors sponsor them and
writers go way out of their way to find new material for them."
"But Juliet in a cowgirl suit! It's beneath the standards of even the lowest medium
of entertainment."
"All right, George, that's enough." Laura's voice was cold. "I told you she was
fifty years behind the times. Either turn her off or I'm going to bed!"
Danby sighed, stood up. He felt ashamed somehow as he walked over to where
Miss Jones was sitting and felt for the little button behind her left ear. She regarded
him calmly, her hands resting motionless on her lap, her breathing coming and going
rhythmically through her synthetic nostrils.
It was like committing murder. Danby shuddered as he returned to his viewchair.
"You and your schoolteachers!" Laura said.
"Shut up," Danby said.
He looked at the screen, tried to become interested in the play. It left him cold.
The next program featured another play—a whodunit entitled Macbeth. That one left
him cold, too. He kept glancing surreptitiously at Miss Jones. Her breast was still
now, her eyes closed. The room seemed horribly empty.
Finally he couldn't stand it any longer. He stood up. "I'm going for a little ride,"
he told Laura, and walked out.




***

He backed the Baby B. out of the drivette and drove down the suburban street to the
boulevard, asking himself over and over why an antique schoolteacher should affect
him so. He knew it wasn't merely nostalgia, though nostalgia was part of
it—nostalgia for September and realschool and walking into the classroom
September mornings and seeing the teacher step out of her little closet by the
blackboard the minute the bell rang and hearing her say, "Good morning, class. Isn't
it a beautiful day for studying our lessons?"
But he'd never liked school any more than the other kids had, and he knew that
September stood for something else besides books and autumn dreams. It stood for
something he had lost somewhere along the line, something indefinable, something
intangible; something he desperately needed now—
Danby wheeled the Baby B. down the boulevard, twisting in and around the
scurrying automobilettes. When he turned down the side street that led to Friendly
Fred's, he saw that there was a new stand going up on the corner. A big sign said:
KING-SIZE CHARCOAL HOTS— HAVE A REAL HOT DOG GRILLED OVER A REAL FIRE!
OPEN SOON!

He drove past, pulled into the parking lot beside Friendly Fred's, stepped out into
the spring-starred night, and let himself in by the side door. The place was crowded,
but he managed to find an empty stall. Inside, he slipped a quarter into the dispenser
and dialed a beer.
He sipped it moodily when it emerged in its sweated paper cup. The stall was
stuffy and smelt of its last occupant—a wino, Danby decided. He wondered briefly