"Zelazny, Roger - THE DOORS OF HIS FACE, THE LAMPS OF HIS MOUTH (v1)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zelazny Roger)

"You!"
"Me?"
"You."
Hair like the end of the rainbow, eyes like nothing in Nature, fine teeth.
"Hello."
"There's a safety rule against what you're doing, you know."
"I know. I've been worrying about it all morning."
A delicate curl climbed my knife, then drifted out behind us. It settled into the foam and was plowed under. I watched her reflection in my blade, taking a secret pleasure in its distortion.
"Are you baiting me?" she finally asked.
I heard her laugh then, and turned, knowing it had been intentional.
"What, me?"
"I could push you off from here, very easily." "I'd make it back."
"Would you push me off, then-some dark night, perhaps?"
"They're all dark, Miss Luharich. No, I'd rather make you a gift of my carving."
She seated herself beside me then, and I couldn't help but notice the dimples in her knees. She wore white shorts and a halter and still had an offworld tan to her which was awfully appealing. I almost felt a twinge of guilt, at having planned the whole scene, but my right hand still blocked her view of the wooden animal.
"Okay, I'll bite. What have you got for me?" "Just a second. It's almost finished."
Solemnly, I passed her the wooden jackass I had been carving. I felt a little sorry and slightly jackass-ish myself, but I had to follow through. I always do. The mouth was split into a braying grin. The ears were upright.
She didn't smile and she didn't frown. She just studied it. "It's very good," she finally said, "like most things you do-and appropriate, perhaps."
"Give it to me." I extended a palm.
She handed it back and I tossed it out over the water. It missed the white water and bobbed for awhile like a pigmy seahorse.
"Why did you do that?"
"It was a poor joke. I'm sorry."
"Maybe you are right, though. Perhaps this time I've bitten off a little too much."
I snorted.
"Then why not do something safer, like another race?" She shook her end of the rainbow.
"No. It has to be an Ikky."
"Why?"
"Why did you want one so badly that you threw away a fortune?"
"Man reasons," I said. "An unfrocked analyst who held black therapy sessions in his basement once told me, 'Mister Davits, you need to reinforce the image of your masculinity by catching one of every kind of fish in existence.' Fish are a very ancient masculinity symbol, you know. So I set out to do it. I have one more to go.-Why do you want to reinforce your masculinity?"
"I don't," she said. "I don't want to reinforce anything but Luharich Enterprises. My chief statistician once said, 'Miss Luharich, sell all the cold cream and face powder in the System and you'll be a happy girl. Rich, too.' And he was right. I am the proof. I can look the way I do and do anything, and I sell most of the lipstick and face powder in the System-but I have to be able to do anything."
"You do look cool and efficient"" I observed.
"I don't feel cool"" she said, rising. "Let's-go for a swim." "May I point out that we are making pretty good time?"
"If you want to indicate the obvious, you may. You said you could make it back to the ship, unassisted. Change your mind?"
"No."
"Then get us two scuba outfits and I'll race you under Tensquare.
"I'll win, too," she added.
I stood and looked down at her, because that usually makes me feel superior to women.
"Daughter of Lir, eyes of Picasso," I said, "you've got yourself a race. Meet me at the forward Rook, starboard, in ten minutes."
"Ten minutes," she agreed.
And ten minutes it was. From the center blister to the Rook took maybe two of them, with the load I was carrying. My sandals grew very hot and I was glad to shuck them for flippers when I reached the comparative cool of the corner.
We slid into harnesses and adjusted our gear. She had changed into a trim one-piece green job that made me shade my eyes and look away, then look back again.
I fastened a rope ladder and kicked it over the side. Then I pounded on the wall of the Rook.
"Yeah?"
"You talk to the port Rook, aft?" I called.
"'They're all set up," came the answer. "There's ladders and draglines all over that end."
"You sure you want to do this?" asked the sunburnt little gink who was her publicity man, Anderson yclept.
He sat beside the Rook in a deckchair, sipping lemonade through a straw.
"It might be dangerous," he observed, sunken-mouthed. (His teeth were beside him, in another glass.)
"That's right," she smiled. "It will be dangerous. Not overly" though."
"Then why don't you let me get some pictures? We'd have them back to Lifeline in an hour. They'd be in New York by tonight. Good copy."