The Best of L. Sprague de Camp L. Sprague de Camp

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"Don't worry about that. His girl just confided to me she wishes he weren't such a stick.
Give him the works."
"Okay," said Bundy.
Falck walked out with a knowing grin. When he came in sight of the other three he called:
"Did somebody say something about tennis?"
Ovid Ross immediately switched his control back to Bundy. He had no illusions about his
game: a powerful serve and a bulletlike forehand drive, but no control to speak of.
They made it mixed doubles, Ross and Claire against the other two. To his amazement, Ross
found his smashes going, not into the net or the wire as usual, but into the corners of the other
court where nobody could touch them. Claire was pretty good, Dorothea rather poor, but Gilbert
Falck excellent, with a catlike agility that
more than made up for his lack of Ross's power. The first set got up to ~ then 6-s, then 6-6, then
7-6.
Dorothea Dunkelberg wailed: "I can't anymore Gil. I'll pass out in this heat."
"Okay," said Falck smoothly. "No law says we have to. Boy, I rather wish we had those
bathing suits. Claire, the Commies wouldn't have some spares, would they?"
"I don't think so; they never keep old clothes. They say in Russia nothing was too good
for them and they expect to have it that way here."
They trailed down the little hill from the tennis court and stood looking longingly at the
clear, pale-green water in the pool. Ross was aware that Bundy was wiping his forehead for him.
Thoughtful of him . . . But then Ross was horrified to hear his controller say in that masterful
way:
"Who wants bathing suits? Come on, boys and girls, take your clothes off and jump in!"
"What?" squealed Dorothea.
"You heard me. Off with 'em!"
"Well, I have a suit-" began Claire, but Bundy-Ross roared:
"No you don't! Not if the rest of us-"
The next few minutes were, for Ovid Ross's impotent psyche, a time of stark horror. How he
got through them without dying of an excess of emotion he never knew. He frantically tried to
regain control of his right arm to reach his switch, but Bundy would not let him. Instead Bundy
took off Ross's sportshirt and shorts, wadded them into a ball, and threw them under the
springboard, meanwhile exhorting the others to do likewise and threatening to throw them in clad
if they refused. .
They were sitting in a row on the edge of the pool, breathing hard with drops streaming
off them and splashing the water with their feet. Ross caught a glimpse of Falck looking at him
with a curious expression, between displeasure and curiosity, as if something he had carefully
planned had gone awry. The controller was showing a tendency to play up to Claire more than Ross
liked so that poor Dorothea was rather ignored. Ross heard Bundy say with his vocal organs:
"We want to be careful not to get that white strip around our middles burned."
"How about finishing that set now?" said Falck.
They got up and walked up the slope to the court. Bundy-Ross, whose serve it was, was just
getting his large knobby toes lined up on the backline for a smash when a fresh outburst of
barking made all turn. Claire cried:
"Damn! I'll bet they've gotten loose again."
"Isn't that a car?" said Dorothea.
"Oh, gosh!" said Claire as the sun flashed on a windshield down the driveway. "It's the
Peshkovs! They weren't supposed to be here till this evening! What'll we do?"
"Make a dash for our clothes," said Falck.
"Too late," said Claire, as the purr of the car, hidden behind the mansion, grew louder
and then stopped. "Run for the woods!"
She ran into the woods, the others trailing. There were ouches and grunts as bushes
scratched their shins and their unhardened soles trod on twigs. Dorothea said:
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"Isn't that poison ivy?"
Falck looked. "I rather think it's Virginia creeper, but we'd better not take chances."
"Oh, dear! I hope we don't find a hornets' nest." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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