"Foster, Alan Dean - Cat-a-lyst" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

nue lined with enormous live oaks.
Spanish moss dripped atmospherically from the vaulting branches. Stunted streets named for local flowers, birds, and animals ran perpendicular toward the mainland or Atlantic Ocean. The houses themselves consisted of everything from fifties ranch-style homes to rambling Castilian mansions and concrete bastions ajut with Bauhaus flourishes.
Robin Lane contained only four homes. The last, of brick and glass, faced the surf. Vehicular approach to the house was barred by a gray wrought-iron gate. From what little he knew of such matters, Carter thought the house architecturally unimaginative and pedestrian in execution. "Not a bad place," he commented, damning it with faint praise.
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24 Alan Dean Foster
Ashwood let out a grunt. "Be the caretaker's shack in Beverly Hills. I reckon it's what passes for fancy around here."
An intercom was mounted on the pillar immediately to the right of the gate. Ashwood rolled down her window, leaned out, and addressed the pickup. Following a brief delay a male voice replied. "Who is it?" The voice was richly nasal, with a drawl that hinted strongly of New England rather than southern origins, Carter decided. "My name's Ashwood. Got a friend with me. Were y'all by any chance floatin' around the Macon area the other day?"
Another pause, then, "Who are you people, and what do you want? I'm a . . . ". . . very busy man," Ashwood finished for him. "I know, you men
are always 'very busy.' Just answer one question for us. Did you visit a
movie set and lose something?"
No pause this time. "You found my property?" "What kind of property?" "A small storage CD," the voice replied impatiently. "Obviously you found it, or you would not have been able to find me. Just a moment."
The disembodied twang was replaced by the whirr of a hidden motor as the heavy gate was drawn aside. "Park by the main door, please. I will meet you there." "Not so fast," said Ashwood. "How do we know y'all are the owner and not just somebody housesittin'? Are you," she hesitated briefly, re-
membering, "Bruton Fewick?" "Fee-wick," the voice snapped. "Not Few-ick. I am."
As Carter drove up, Fewick came lumbering lightly down the front steps, moving with unusual grace for someone with the build of a resurrected zeppelin. He had wavy blond hair, hazel eyes, and the look and demeanor of a demented baby. He was also much younger than Carter expected, thirty at most. "I am very grateful to you." Definitely New England, Carter thought. As an actor he picked up on accents right away. "I have been working with the material on that disc for some time and, silly me, neglected to back up everything." He turned. "Please, come inside."
Must be valuable, Ashwood told herself, for him to have been carryin'it around with him. To Carter she added in a whisper, "Maybe we can get two thousand out of him." "Marjorie." Carter shook his head disapprovingly.
He expected servants, but there were no other signs of life as Fewick led them through the house and into a combination library-study. "Stupid of me," their host was saying, "keeping that on my person."
Cat - a - Lyst 25
"Yeah, it was." Ashwood feigned interest in the crowded bookshelves that lined the walls. "You must know something of how RW-CDs function because you got in deep enough to unearth my name and address." "I work with optical storage myself," she told him. He looks like a
surfing snowman, she thought. Only pink instead of white. All he needed was black eyes instead of brown and a carrot sticking out of his mouth. Instead of waddling when he walked, as she would have expected, he covered ground with a sort of athletic mince.
Unlike his companion, Car-ter found the room fascinating. The only time he'd ever seen more books in a private residence was in the mansion of a major producer who'd been considering him for a role. Every book there had looked brand-new, probably because not one of them had been touched by human hands since they'd left the bindery. In contrast Fewick's all looked thoroughly perused, unevenly packed on their shelves, sometimes stacked in horizontal haste instead of having being returned to their proper niches.
A huge antique desk dominated one comer of the room near a window that overlooked sand and salt grass. Gilt decorated its clawed feet and edges. Two other tables stood nearby. The top of one was inclined fortyfive degrees and displayed sheets of paper. It was illuminated from within. The other was home to more than a dozen wide, shallow drawers of the type one might find in the office of a professional cartographer.
Sculptures and other arcane objects were scattered about the room: on shelves, pedestals, the carpeted floor. Carter found himself standing next to a gargoylish human figure which had been boldly hacked from black wood. Decorated with feathers and beads, its cowrie-shell eyes seemed to follow him around the room. He thought the fist-sized ball of amber on the desk much more attractive, despite the dozen or so insects entombed within. It rested next to a small solid sterling sculpture of a nude woman and a swan, whom the artist had captured in the middle of an act not likely to be depicted anytime soon on the Disney Channel. "Lotta books," Ashwood observed. "You read 'em all?" "At least in part," Fewick replied pleasantly.
Carter turned from the desk. "Mind my asking what kind of business you're in?"
Fewick beamed. "Why, the best sort of business there is." A gargled, choking noise emerged from his throat, which, since he was evincing no
obvious signs of external distress, could be nothing other than a laugh. "My parents are obscenely wealthy. They are also painfully sophisticated, extremely intelligent, and dull as dishwater. Which is why, as soon
as I came into my inheritance from my grandparents, who were, if any-
26 Alan Dean Foster
thing, even duller people, I immediately moved out of the family manse
and set myself up down here." "Where's home?" Ashwood asked him. "Boston. Have you ever been to Boston, Mr. . . . "Jason Carter. I'm from Minnesota myself. About fifty miles west of Minneapolis. A town called . . ." "How extremely interesting," Fewick said with unseemly haste. As their host smiled it struck the actor that he wasn't being intentionally rude. It was simply his manner. At least he was straightforward, which was more than could be said for the average executive producer or axemurderer. "If you would be so kind as to restore my property to me?"
Ashwood removed the plastic-wrapped CD from her purse and handed it over. Fewick took it delicately, holding it by the edges. "Thank you," he told her with feeling. "Why is it so important?" Ashwood asked him, tact being one of the few four-letter words with which she was not comfortable.
Instead of replying, Fewick went to his desk and opened a side drawer. The disc slipped into a vacant slot alongside dozens of others. The storage capacity represented by the contents of that single drawer, Carter knew, must be immense. "There was something on there about a reward?" Ashwood said pointedly.
Fewick shut the drawer. "Oh, that's old information. I should have erased that long ago."
Her expression narrowed and she adopted a tone that startled Carter. Suddenly she didn't sound like good old Ma@, the wardrobe lady. "Old information? You handled that sucker like it was yesterday's prostate scan." Her voice softened. "Besides, would you really try to cheat an old lady?" "Oh, very well." He sighed. "I suppose that to your way of thinking you have gone to some trouble. I will give you . . . a hundred dollars." "The disc said a thousand." "Two hundred, then." A large rust-colored tomcat suddenly materialized atop the desk. Carter decided it had been sleeping in the leg space beneath. It rubbed up against Fewick, who reached down to stroke its back. Half-closed Persian eyes regarded the visitors. "This is Moe." Their host was enjoying himself, Carter saw.
"Nine hundred," said Ashwood. "Three." Fewick continued to stroke the cat. "My best friend. Have you ever noticed how much nicer cats are than humans? I truly believe
Cat - a - Lyst 27
they are our only equals." He eyed the immovable Ashwood. "Unlike Moe, I do not have a lot of time to waste in play. Five hundred."
Ashwood muttered something under her breath. "All right." Fewick had a very small mouth which all but disappeared behind bunched cheeks when he smiled. Seating himself behind the desk, he wrote out a check, then rose to hand it to Ashwood. She was watching him warily. "How do I know you won't stop payment on this soon as we're out the door?"
Fewick clasped his hands together delightedly. "What delicious cynicism! Madam, I could easily have given you nothing. This I offer for your time and out of the goodness of my heart." "I have this feeling that your heart is full of goo, not goodness."
Fewick pursed his incongruously small lips. "You wound me deeply." "I 'wound you deeply'? Y'all been watchin' too many bad movies, bubbles. You need to get clear o' this mausoleum more and out into the real world." :,Marjorie!" 'It is quite all right, Mr. Carter," Fewick assured him. "My verbal affectations reflect an admiration for a world of elegance lost to time. I am inured to criticism of both my speech and appearance. That ex-
plained, you will both now do me the courtesy of departing." "Did you have to insult him, Marjorie?" Carter slid behind the wheel of the rented car, turned the ignition. "Nope. But it sure was fun. The cheap son of a bitch promised a
thousand bucks reward. He got off on cheating us." She held up the check. "I had half a mind to wad this up and throw it back in his face. Fortunately the other half of my mind stayed in control." She dropped the check into her purse. "Hey, how about we go back through Valdosta? We got time." "What's in Valdosta?" He turned out of the driveway and onto the main street. "I dunno. But the name always intrigued me."
As the wrought-iron gate closed, the rotund shape standing at the second-floor window lowered the drape it had been holding aside and returned to the gilded desk. Seating himself, Bruton Fewick opened the file drawer and carefully removed the prodigal disc.
It slid easily into a slot in the side of the computer that emerged on
command from within the desk. Not until several complex passwords had been processed did the screen fill with precious information. Only when he was certain nothing had been damaged did he allow himself to relax.
28 Alan Dean Foster
He'd been utilizing the research library at the University of Georgia when an acquaintance had mentioned that there might be an open spot
on a forthcoming excursion to a nearby movie set. The result of letting himself be talked into participating had been near disaster. Months of work, of reading and poring over maps, would have been lost forever if not for the resourcefulness of the simple people who had found his disc.
Now his efforts were about to enter a new stage. It was time to begin final preparations. He could have survived the loss of the disc, but it would have set him back many months, and after years of research and toil the delay would have been painful.
Soon the whole world would know his name, would stand in awe of his accomplishments. Especially his parents, who had barely condescended to speak to him ever since he'd announced his intention while a junior at college to pursue a field of endeavor outside the family business.
He stroked the big tom, listening to it purr contentedly. He had the cat to thank for that. It was Moe who had accidentally dislodged the book in his father's library which had so intrigued the studious young Bruton and changed the course of his life. Prior to that he had been at best an