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

carry a different kind of baggage with them and can be so much more interesting. So I spend my free time visiting the hotels. It lets me practice my English."
Her earlier disclaimer seemed to be the truth. An hour of casual conversation included nothing to suggest that she was in fact a loquacious nocturnal capitalist who was simply biding her time prior to venturing the expected proposition. "I don' have the money to travel," she was telling him as they both nursed local coffee. "So I watch the television and read magazines. But it's better to talk with someone who has actually been such places as
Paris or New York or Buenos Aires than jus' to read about them."
He checked his watch. "Then I hope I've been informative as well as entertaining. I've enjoyed your company, Francesca."
She ignored the hint, leaning forward across the table. "So tell me: what you gonna do while you in Cuzco? You mus' go up to Sacsayhuaman, of course, and there are many interesting buildings around the Plaza de Armas." "My companion is doing all the planning," he told her. "I unnerstand. Are you goin' down into the selva, the jungle, at all?" "We might," he murmured diffidently. "Like I said, my friend is handling our itinerary." "You really don' want to go there. It is miserable, hot, and the insects will have you for breakfast if the snakes don' kill you first." She shook her head. "I don' understan' tourists. Machu Picchu, Cuzco, that I understan'. But why anyone would want to pile into a plane and go to Puerto Maldonado to sweat like pigs to see some macaws, that is jus' crazy. We who live here have more sense than that." She stared evenly at him. "The only people who go into the selva do so for money: gold prospectors, oil engineers, poachers. An' all of them would rather be someplace else. For many of them the selva is their last chance. Why would anyone go there who doesn' have to?" "Why do people go to zoos?" Carter finished his coffee. "As for me, I'm one of those people who like looking at animals."
She shook her head disparagingly. "The animals in the selva don'just look back. Most of them bite. Take my advice and look at the ruins instead. It's safer." She rose and he reflexively echoed the movement. It wasn't often he had the chance to say good night to a dinner companion eye-to-eye. "Maybe I see you around Cuzco," she told him. "You goin' to be at this hotel for a while?" "As far as I know," he replied truthfully.
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"Okay. You don' mind my talking to you, do you? All I want is to talk, not to sleep with you."
Her bluntness delighted him. "Fine by me. The altitude makes me dizzy anyway." "I could make you dizzier." She favored him with a strange, tight little smile. "But that I can have anytime. Good conversation is much harder to come by. Maybe I see you here again tomorrow night." "Maybe. Good night." "Buenas noches@ "
He followed her with his eyes as she marched out of the restaurant. So did the maitre d' and the remaining waiter. So did the clerk at the front desk. With her beauty, height, and regal bearing she would have turned heads in Manhattan.
It was exhausting simply to sit and listen to her and he discovered that he was suddenly very tired. The elevator carried him to the third and top floor. There was no action from the phone, no knock on the door as he undressed and readied himself for bed. The flight from Lima, the altitude, and the tea combined to counteract the effects of the after-dinner coffee and he quickly fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
He sensed the movement before he came fully awake: something small and active in the darkness at the foot of his bed. The rapid return of consciousness was accompanied by memories of every television documentary he'd ever seen on South American wildlife: enormous snakes, smaller venomous reptiles, giant bird-eating spiders, and lethal scorpions. They crawled and slithered through his mind in rapid succession, as clear and sharp and immediate as if he were scrolling through a CD-ROM encyclopedia.
Blinking furiously to clear sleep from his eyes, he lifted his head just enough to see a dark silhouette fumbling under the blanket near his feet. Uttering a silent curse, he jerked his body into a sitting position, back against the headboard, his knees drawn up close to his chest. Swinging his legs to his right he slipped out of the bed and looked around wildly for a weapon.
Clutching the dressing-table chair in one hand he cautiously approached the foot of the bed. By now his eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light. With his free hand he snatched convulsively at the blanket, prepared to retreat into the bathroom if necessary, and yanked it aside.
A dark, four-Iegged shape exploded off the sheet and vanished under the dresser.
Carter let out a long, relieved sigh and put the chair down, embarrassed at his initial panic. Slipping into his robe, he got down on hands
Cat - a - Lyst 41
and knees to peer beneath the dresser. A pair of bright close-set eyes stared back at him. "It's okay," he murmured. "Believe me, kitty, you surprised me more than I surprised you. Come on," he said coaxingly. "Come on out. I won't hurt you."
His persistence finally drew forth a querulous meow, followed by the emergence of a dainty black and white feline form. At first he thought it was only a kitten, later saw that it was simply a very small but fully adult female.
The head jerked back as he reached for it, then slowly slipped beneath his patient fingers. Soon he was stroking the animal as though he'd known it for years. The cat slid her spine contentedly back and forth against his hand. Nor did she offer any resistance when he picked her up and placed her in his lap as he sat down in the chair. She turned a few circles, finally collapsing into a black and white spiral against his robe as
he scratched her behind her ears. "Now, how did you get in here?" He glanced at the window which opened onto the cylindrical three-story-high atrium. "Did you come in that way?"
The animal wore no collar, which didn't surprise him. A third-world city like Cuzco would be full of strays. Despite that and some basic scruffiness she was pretty clean. He could find no evidence of injury or
infection and at this altitude fleas would find it hard to make a living.
Calling the front desk never crossed his mind. If the animal wasn't a house cat the appalled staff would instantly put her back on the street, if not worse. He didn't want to see that happen. Though he'd always liked animals, as a traveling adult he'd never had the time to take care of one.
A sharp rap on the door punctuated Ashwood's query. "You up, cuddles?" "Yeah! Just be a minute, Madorie." He rose and gently set the cat on
his abandoned pillow. "Be quiet now," he instructed the animal softly as
he headed for the door.
Ashwood stood in the hall, fully dressed and anxious to go. "Yall ain't ready. You were supposed to be ready." "Sorry. My wake-up call was unexpectedly early." "Who was it? The basketball player? Look, I don't care what you do on your own, Car-ter, but if you plan on stickin' with me on this little hike you will be ready each morning to depart on time." "Actually a lady is involved, but not the one you're thinking of." He smiled. "Why don't you come in and say good morning to her?"
Ashwood was taken aback. "Hey, I don't have the slightest interest in your . . ."
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"Don't be shy, Marjorie." He grabbed her wrist and pulled her in. Ashwood looked around warily. "Where is she?" "In the bed. Where else?" Carter's smile widened. His companion looked in spite of herself. Then she muttered some-
thing under her breath. "Oh, you should definitely be doing stand-up, Carter, Where'd that come from?" "I have no idea. I thought maybe through the inside window." He sat down by the head of the bed and began stroking the animal. It stirred in its sleep. "She got under the foot of my blanket and woke me up. I want to tell you, I nearly made it back to Lima without the plane." "What are you gonna do with it?" Ashwood shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. "We've got to get moving." "Well, I'm not just going to dump her out on the street. Poor people elsewhere eat dogs. No telling what they eat here. If I just leave her, the hotel's liable to have her put down." "So what's left? You gonna take her with us?" She meant the suggestion as sarcasm.
It had a different effect on her young companion. "Why not?" he replied defiantly, as if the thought had already occurred to him. "I could sure use an alternative to your company."
Ashwood held her temper. "You can't take a house cat into the jungle." "Why not? She's small, doesn't weigh much. I'll carry her in my pack." "You're crazy. Something down there'll make a meal of her. This is a domesticated animal we're talkin' about, Jason." She sounded disgusted. "Big tough actor, the guy who carries the machine gun in one hand and the grenade launcher in the other, and you're gonna nursemaid a cat through the jungle?" "Watch me." "When'd you decide to do this?" "Spur of the moment. I've never done anything like it before, so why not do it now?" "I can't stop y'all. But I don't want to hear about it when things get tough, you understand? The cat has any problems, they're your prob- lems."
"That's what I had in mind." He gazed fondly at his newfound friend. The cat lifted its head, eyes shut with pleasure at his touch. "Pretty bold of her sneaking in here like this. I think I'll call her Macho."
Ashwood rolled her eyes. "You can't call her Macho if she's a female. Call her Macha if you have to. And you'd better hope she keeps quiet while we're out or the hotel will make machaca out of her."
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Carter rose and latched the interior window, barring the only exit. "I'm sure she'll sleep 'til we get back." He glanced across at the animal.
66YOU'll be quiet, won't you?" The only response was a continuing sessile purr. "God," Ashwood muttered. "When we get down into the lowlands you gonna talk to the snakes and piranhas too?" "If I think there's any chance of getting an answer," he shot back. "Throw on some clothes and let's move."
They made inquiries at the hotel desk, at the American Express office down the street, and around town. An English-speaking cop finally directed them to the offices of the Organizaci6n por la Conservaci6n de la Selva Sur, on the north side of the Plaza de Armas. A busy researcher juggling a handful of slides told them to try another room in the same building.
The guide's office was a tiny, jumbled mess. Gear and books crowded the battered desk into a comer and all but obscured the famous view of the ancient cathedral across the plaza. A telephone and an antique man-
ual typewriter clung precariously to one side of the desk.
The office's single occupant was a soft-voiced, swarthy young man
with lively eyes and delicate features. He stood barely five seven and looked much too young to be a representative of his chosen profession. His English was excellent, but that was to be expected, Carter mused. "Your timing is not good," he informed his visitors. "I'm supposed to go to Lima to check out some new equipment. I'm not really interested right now in going into the selva." "What would it take to get you to change your mind, sonny?" Ashwood added something in rapid-fire Spanish and Carter eyed her in surprise. Obviously pleased, the guide replied in his own language.
Their haggling gave Carter time to study the contents of the office. He found a stack of high-quality eight-by-ten photos: greenery, something that looked like a black alligator with a dragon's tail, a pair of impossibly large otters, and a jaguar napping in a tree.
After Ashwood and the man settled on a price there were handshakes all around, at which point Carter learned that henceforth they would be trusting themselves to the expertise of one Igor von Mannheim de Soto.
16We're really going into unexplored jungle with a guide named Igor?" Carter whispered to his companion. "You've lived in L.A. too long," Ashwood admonished him. "South America isn't any more ethnically homogeneous than the North. So there's German and Russian in the kid's family. It's his competency that concerns me, not his genealogy."
6'You never told me you spoke Spanish."
44 Alan Dean Foster
She ignored the observation. "He says he grew up in the Madre de Dios district and knows it the way you'd know Beverly Hills. He's been guiding since he was fifteen." "That's right," agreed Igor, blandly indifferent to his new employer's outright appraisal of his qualifications. "He's fresh enough to be enthusiastic and crazy enough to take us