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

He got behind the wheel and drove down to the boulevard, then up the boulevard,
with all the windows open and the warm wind washing around him.
The hot-dog stand on the corner was nearing completion. He glanced at it idly as
he turned into the side street. There were a number of empty stalls at Friendly Fred's,
and he chose one at random. He had quite a few beers, standing there at the lonely
little bar, and he did a lot of thinking. When he was sure his wife and son were in
bed, he drove home, opened Miss Jones' case, and turned her on.
"Were you going to hit Billy this afternoon?" he asked.
The blue eyes regarded him unwaveringly, the lashes fluttering at rhythmic
intervals, the pupils gradually adjusting themselves to the living-room lamp Laura had
left burning. Presently: "I am incapable of striking a human, sir. I believe the clause is
in my guarantee."
"I'm afraid your guarantee ran out some time ago, Miss Jones," Danby said. His
voice felt thick and his words kept running together. "Not that it matters. You did
grab his arm though, didn't you?"
"I had to, sir."
Danby frowned. He swayed a little, weaved back into the living room on rubbery
legs. "Come over and sit down and tell me about it, Mish—Miss Jones," he said.
He watched her step out of her case and walk across the room. There was
something odd about the way she walked. Her step was no longer light, but heavy;
her body no longer delicately balanced, but awry. With a start, he realized that she
was limping.
She sat down on the couch and he sat down beside her. "He kicked you, didn't
he?" he said.
"Yes, sir. I had to hold him back or he'd have kicked me again."
There was a dull redness filling the room, coalescing before his eyes. Then,
subtly, the redness dissipated before the dawning realization that here in his hand lay
the very weapon he had needed: the psychological bludgeon with which he could
quell all further objection to Miss Jones.
But a little of the redness still remained and it was permeated with regret. "I'm
terribly sorry, Miss Jones. Billy's too aggressive, I'm afraid."
"He could hardly help being so, sir. I was quite astonished today when I learned
that those horrid programs that he watches constitute his entire educational fare. His
teleteacher is little more than a semicivilized M.C. whose primary concern is selling
his company's particular brand of cornflakes. I can understand now why your
writers have to revert to the classics for ideas. Their creativity is snuffed out by
clichés while still in its embryo stage."
 Danby was enchanted. He had never heard anyone talk that way before. It wasn't
her words so much. It was the way she said them, the conviction that her voice
carried despite the fact that her "voice" was no more than a deftly-built speaker
geared to tapes that were in turn geared to unimaginably intricate memory banks.
But sitting there beside her, watching her lips move, seeing her lashes descend
every so often over her blue, blue eyes, it was as though September had come and
sat in the room. Suddenly a feeling of utter peace engulfed him. The rich, mellow
days of September filed one by one past his eyes and he saw why they were
different from other days. They were different because they had depth and beauty
and quietness; because their blue skies held promises of richer, mellower days to
come—
They were different because they had meaning …
The moment was so poignantly sweet that Danby never wanted it to end. The