"Robert A. Heinlein - The Door into Summer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

For A.P. and Phyllis, Mick and Annette;
Aelurophiles All.


THE DOOR INTO SUMMER
By Robert A. Heinlein


CHAPTER 1

One winter shortly before the Six Weeks War my tomcat, Petronius the
Arbiter, and I lived in an old farmhouse in Connecticut. I doubt if it is there
any longer, as it was near the edge of the blast area of the Manhattan near
miss, and those old frame buildings burn like tissue paper. Even if it is still
standing it would not be a desirable rental because of the fall-out, but we
liked it then, Pete and I. The lack of plumbing made the rent low and what
had been the dining room had a good north light for my drafting board.
The drawback was that the place had eleven doors to the outside.
Twelve, if you counted PeteтАЩs door. I always tried to arrange a door of his
own for Pete-in this case a board fitted into a window in an unused bedroom
and in which I had cut a cat strainer just wide enough for PeteтАЩs whiskers. I
have spent too much of my life opening doors for cats. I once calculated that,
since the dawn of civilization, nine hundred and seventy-eight man-centuries
have been used up that way. I could show you figures.
Pete usually used his own door except when he could bully me into opening
a people door for him, which he preferred. But he would not use his door
when there was snow on the ground.
While still a kitten, all fluff and buzzes, Pete had worked out a simple
philosophy. I was in charge of quarters, rations, and weather; he was in
charge of everything else. But he held me especially responsible for weather.
Connecticut winters are good only for Christmas cards; regularly that winter
Pete would check his own door, refuse to go out it because of that
unpleasant white stuff beyond it (he was no fool), then badger me to open a
people door.
He had a fixed conviction that at least one of them must lead into summer
weather. Each time this meant that I had to go around with him to each of
eleven doors, held it open while he satisfied himself that it was winter out that
way, too, then go on to the next door, while his criticisms of my
mismanagement grew more bitter with each disappointment.
Then he would stay indoors until hydraulic pressure utterly forced him
outside. When he returned the ice in his pads would sound like little clogs on
the wooden floor and he would glare at me and refuse to purr until he had
chewed it all out. . . whereupon he would forgive me until the next time.
But he never gave up his search for the Door into Summer.
 On 3 December, 1970, 1 was looking for it too.
My quest was about as hopeless as PeteтАЩs had been in a Connecticut
January. What little snow there was in southern California was kept on
mountains for skiers, not in downtown Los Angeles-the stuff probably couldnтАЩt
have pushed through the smog anyway. But the winter weather was in my
heart.