"Simon Hawke - The Nine Lives of Catseye Gomez" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawke Simon)

pavement has been replaced by grassy causeways, since vehicles that operate by magic skim above the
surface and have no need of asphalt roads. Acid rain is something that's just read about in history books
now, and magic properly applied by reclamation engineers has cleaned up landfills and toxic-waste dumps
and brought new meaning to the term biodegradable.
Graduate schools of thaumaturgy turn out new adepts each year, of varying levels of talent and achievement,
from lower-grade adept up through the ranks to wizard, sorcerer, and mage. Your basic lower-grade adept is
usually someone with just enough talent to master a few fairly undemanding spells, such as levitation and
impulsion, which are used to drive taxicabs and trucks. A wizard can do considerably more, such as
maintaining the spells that allow power plants to stay on line, and certification as a sorcerer opens up the
corporate world to the adept, with a career and lifestyle right up at the top of the social pecking order. Nothing
like living high and skimming off the cream. But not all sorcerers opt for the business world. Some go into the
fields of art and entertainment, and that's where I come in.
One of the most respected positions in the world of art is occupied by the thaumagenetic engineer adept, part
scientist, part sorcerer, who specializes in creating hybridized new life forms for the enrichment of your
private life. A thaumagene is the ultimate form of pet these days. You can go out and get yourself a snat, a
cute and furry little creature that's a magical hybrid of a snail and cat. It's soft and cuddly, and it purrs and
vibrates and clings to walls and ceilings. Silly things, but they're very big with single women. Or you can get
yourself a paragriffin, a hybrid of a parrot and a miniature lion, or perhaps a leopard. It flies and talks, and you
can teach it songs. Or, if that's not to your taste, you can get a dobra, a hybrid of a cobra and a dog, and
you'll have something spectacularly ugly that you can take for walks out in the park, and pity the poor burglar
who tries to break into your home. If you've really got the scratch, you can get yourself a living sculpture,
something crafted out of precious stones and metals, then magically animated. Just the thing for the coffee
table or the breakfast nook. Me, I'm at the low end of the scale, and I make no bones about it. I'm your basic
thaumagene, economy-class model, one of the two traditional categories of pet. You got your dogs, and you
got your cats. Look normal, act pretty much like they're supposed to, only with highly developed brains and
the capacity to speak and reason. We're the most inexpensive kind of thaumagene, and, consequently,
there's more of us around.
Personally, I like the way I am. I'd rather look like an ordinary cat than like some high-toned piece of living art.
I'm not pretentious, just your basic milk and kibbles kind of guy. Black, with white markings on my face and
paws. I've got one distinguishing characteristic, though, and that's Betsy, my magic Chinese turquoise
eyeball. See, I never had what you might call a normal sort of life, normal for a thaumagene, at any rate. Back
when I was still a kitten, even then, I had my pride. Sitting in a window of a thaumagene shop, mewing and
pawing at the glass each time some skirt came by to take a peek and mutter, "Oh, how cute"-no, sir, not my
style. I wanted out. And so I slipped the lock on my little cubicle one night and struck out on my own. Guess
I've always been the independent type.
Those were lean and hungry days. Living by my wits in the alleys and back streets of Sante Fe, New Mexico,
scratching and clawing for survival, eating out of garbage cans and dumpsters, sleeping in basement window
wells and thrown-out cardboard boxes, it wasn't easy, I can tell you that. But it was freedom, Jack, and I
loved the sweet and heady taste of it. I never knew the pampered life, and I guess that made me what I am
today. I had my share of scraps, some of which I won and some of which I lost, but as I grew older and leaner
and meaner, the losses came less frequently. It was in one of those scraps in which I barely squeaked
through by the skin of my tail that I lost my eye. Ran into a dog that wanted what I'd scored for dinner. I was
hungry and I didn't want to share. Well, turned out the dog was a coyote, and by the time he decided I was
more trouble than I was worth, I'd gotten chewed up pretty bad. Scratch one eyeball. Hurt like hell, but I had
the satisfaction of not backing down. Stupid? Maybe, but you back down once, you'll back down twice, and it
can get to be a habit. I've got enough bad habits as it is.
Enter Paulie. Professor Paul Ramirez was his full name, and he was Dean of the College of Sorcerers at the
university. He found me in the street, where I'd collapsed, too tired and too weak and too full of pain to move
another step. He picked me up and took me home with him, and I was so messed up, I didn't have the
strength to argue. He nursed me back to health and, when I got better, took me to a thaumagenetic vet. I