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

indifferent student. Subsequent to his change of direction he had applied himself to his studies with a vengeance.
It did not bother him that his parents disapproved. Their attitude toward their only son had always been lukewarm at best. They had raised him as one might a pedigreed dog for which they had overpaid, cozening but rarely touching, admiring formally while still regarding him with a
distinct air of vague disappointment.
That would change with the fulfillment of his work. They would have no choice but to admire and recognize his achievements because their snooty society friends certainly would. He smiled down at Moe, mentally thanking the cat yet again for the providential accident which had so
changed his life. Fewick had encountered the stray on campus and it had immediately attached itself to the hefty pre-law student. They'd been together ever since.
We're both outcasts, he thought. We belong together. Pulling a book from the pile on his desk he began comparing its con-
tents with notes recorded on the disc. Soon his parents would be able to ignore him no longer. They would have to admit that he'd been right all along, that they'd been wrong. His growing fame would soon eclipse their anger and disappointment.
Even his haughty, supercilious father would be forced to confess that having a famous archaeologist in the family might not be such a bad thing after all.
Cat - a - Lyst 29
The Renegade was reasonably content. While another creature might have reacted ebulliently now that plans long in the making were nearing fruition, he remained restrained. His sense of time was very different from that of the ordinary sentient.
Not that he wasn't enjoying the game. In the end, it was all that made existence worthwhile. If not for it, he surely would have expired long ago of inconceivable ennui.
Events were progressing according to plan despite the presence of the Monitor. Her futile attempts to locate him and put a stop to his activities only added to his enjoyment. Nothing was going to interfere with his little amusement. Boredom could be allayed only by the introduction of unexpected anomalies into the developmental scheme, and if millions died as a result, well, it promised some real excitement at last. He looked forward eagerly to the culmination of his gambit.
Slip-sliding boredly through the planes of existence had led him to stumble on this unique opportunity to unhinge normality. He had immediately grasped the dynamic possibilities. Only recently had the local Monitor even begun to sense his presence. Her subsequent attempts to confront him were a continuing source of amusement.
He had been patient and would continue to be so. Of course, there was always the possibility of local interference, but he was confident he could cope with that without revealing himself. The local sentients were entertaining but not very perceptive. They no more suspected his existence than they did that of the Monitor. Their tendency to spend so much of their time looking inward was one of the things that made them so much fun to play with.
Nothing would stop him. He had committed too much time, too much effort, to allow that to happen. The key to local destabilization was a gift from a sardonic cosmos, one that he intended to put to optimal use.
If developed to its utmost it might even provide him with a power base with which to challenge stabilities elsewhere. That would truly complicate the work of the Monitors. A pity none of the other Shihararaneth shared his passion for chaos and disruption. He found their obsession with ordered progress and evolution sickening. It was up to him alone to do something about it.
Even if it did mean having to start small.
IV
THE pat on his backside didn't startle Carter. Years in the business had resigned him to uninvited contact. But the identity of the perpetrator did surprise him.
Madorie Ashwood was grinning up at him, a drink clutched loosely in one hand. Not the cheap champagne the producers had magnanimously provided for the wrap party, but hard liquor the hue of burnt acorns. She was happy, not drunk. "Hi, good-lookin'." "Hello, Madorie."
She gave him a conspiratorial wink. "I gotta secret. Wanna know my secret?" "I don't know, Mad." He replied carefully, wondering what she was
getting at. If she'd been any younger he'd have known automatically, but that conclusion didn't fit the maternal if testy image he'd formed of the wardrobe mistress. "Hey!" The complaint reached him above the din of the party.
He looked back at his companion of the moment, an actress who'd played one of the picture's numerous accessory southern belles. Watery champagne notwithstanding, she was far more tipsy than Ashwood. Beautiful blue eyes, severely glazed, stared back at him. She was swaying on her feet, and not for emphasis. Her body didn't need any extra emphasis.
He regarded her tolerantly. In addition to the champagne, she'd been indulging in some controlled substance of unknown potential. Her cur-
rent equilibrium was about as stable as her speech. "Get rid of the old bag, Jase, and let's go." Her speech was heavily slurred. She reached out to grab his hand.
He pulled away. "Not now, Kimmie." She frowned at him. "Don' tell me you'd rather be with that
31
32 Alan Dean Foster
"I don't want to be with anyone," he said sharply. "I'm really tired and I've got to catch a plane tomorrow."
She gave it one last try. "You can sleep on the plane. You don't wanna
sleep here. This is partytime." "I'm kind of partied out, Kimmie." He smiled apologetically and walked away from her. Her frustrated muttering was quickly swallowed by the noise of the crowd.
Ashwood was there to intercept him on the far side of the hall, away from the open bar. "Thanks for rescuing me," he told her.
She sipped at her glass as she observed the milling crowd of crew and performers. "Most guys your age would think of it as interference, not a rescue." "I know, but I get so damned tired of women looking at me like that." "Awww. Poor boy." She patted him on the cheek, having to stand on
tiptoes to reach his face. "Life's such a trial for you." "You don't have to patronize me," he grumbled. "I didn't say I didn't like who I was, just that that sort of thing gets old when you have to deal with it day after day." "Still want to see my secret?" "Oh, all right. What's your secret, Marjorie?" "Y'all have to come out to the trailer." "Whoa. I just got through thanking you for rescuing me from one situation." "It's nothin' like that, handsome. Not that I'd be averse, mind. You really are a beautiful young man. But I promise that's not what I've got in mind."
He dismissed the party. "Why not? This was old before it got started." They exited the hall and found themselves in the courtyard of the rambling suburban motel in which cast and crew had been housed. He followed Ashwood along a concrete walkway, past the pool, and up one
flight of stairs. While his guide fumbled with her room key he wondered if she was being straight with him. He looked worriedly in both directions, wondering where Trang Ho was. This kind of publicity he didn't need.
The room had been cleaned earlier. Two fully packed large suitcases lay open on the bed. Piled on the small dinette-style table were several boxes and the wardrobe mistress's laptop. She sat down and turned it on.
As she worked, words appeared and scrolled up the screen. They were
accompanied by drawings and maps. "There it is," she told him. "This is my secret." "You're going too fast for me to read anything."
Cat - a - Lyst 33
She looked up at him. "Remember the disc we returned last week?" He nodded. "When some sucker offers a reward for the return of information, wouldn't you be curious to know what it consisted of?"
He should've guessed. "Ma@orie . . . you didn't copy his disc?" "Just as a precaution. Don't look at me like that, gorgeous. I could've kept the original. And don't tell me you ain't interested." "I'm not." He moved to leave. "Well, since you ask," she said slyly, "taken as a whole, I think it's some kinda treasure map."
He halted, turned. "You've been using my rejected scripts for reading material." "Are you sayin' there's no such thing as treasure?" "What kind of treasure?"
She looked back at the screen. "Well, it don't exactly say that there's a
treasure. But it hints, and gives directions." She smiled brightly. "And I'm gonna go find it."
He gaped at her. "What about your work?" "The next picture I'm contracted for don't start principal photography for six months yet. I'll just tell my people not to sign me up for anything interim. I was plannin' on taking a little vacation anyways."
He couldn't keep from asking, "Where's this treasure supposed to be, anyway? Off the coast here?" Like anyone else who watched TV he knew all about the Spanish galleons that had been salvaged off the Florida Keys. "Wrong coast. We're talking South America. Peru, to be exact."
Carter considered. "You don't want to go there. It's swarming with drug runners and Maoist guerrillas who think Stalin was a raving liberal." "Listen to me, sonny-boy." She switched to the voice she'd utilized briefly in Bruton Fewick's study. "There's plenty you don't know about me. To you I'm just Granny Ma@, the lady who darns your jockey shorts. But before I started stitchin' I did other things. I can take care of myself." "That so? What did you do that qualifies you for a trip like this?"
She backed off abruptly, as though she might already have said too much. "Let's just say it involved a lot of travelin' around, and that I learned how to handle myself on the road. I'm only tellin' you any of this because I thought you deserved to know, you havin' found the disc an' all. Now go back to your party. Go on." She waved at him as if trying to shoo a puppy.
He didn't stir. "My next film, if I decide to sign the contract, doesn't