"Henry Kuttner - Call Him Demon " - читать интересную книгу автора (Kuttner Henry)

Jane accepted it. The uncle who wasтАФemptyтАФthe one in the cellar called Ruggedo, who had to be fed regularly on raw meat, so
that Something wouldn't happen. ...
A masquerader, from somewhere. He had power, and he had limitations. The obvious evidences of his power were accepted
without question.
Children are realists. It was not incredible to them, for this hungry, inhuman stranger to appear among themтАФfor here he was.
He came from somewhere. Out of time, or space, or an inconceivable place. He never had any human feelings; the children sensed
that easily. He pretended very cleverly to be human, and he could warp the adult minds to implant artificial memories of his
existence. The adults thought they remembered him. An adult will recognize a mirage; a child will be deceived. But conversely,
an intellectual mirage will deceive an adult, not a child.
Ruggedo's power couldn't warp their minds, for those were neither quite human nor quite sane, from the adult standpoint.
Beatrice, who was oldest, was afraid. She had the beginnings of empathy and imagination.
Little Charlie felt mostly excitement. Bobbie, the smallest, had already begun to be bored. . . .
Perhaps later Beatrice remembered a little of what Ruggedo looked like, but the others never did. For they reached him by a very
strange road, and perhaps they were somewhat altered themselves during the time they were with him. He accepted or rejected
food; that was all. Upstairs, the body of the Scoodler pretended to be human, while the Scoodler's head lay in that little, horrible
nest he had made by warping space, so he was invisible and intangible to anyone who didn't know how tp find the Road of Yellow
Bricks.
What was he? Without standards of comparisonтАФand there are none, in this worldтАФhe cannot be named. The children thought of
him as Ruggedo. But he was not the fat, half-comic, inevitably frustrated Gnome King.
He was never that.
Call him demon.
As a name-symbol, it implies too much and not enough. But it will have to do. By the standard of maturity he was monster, alien,
super-being. But because of what he did, and what he wantedтАФcall him demon.
Chapter 2. Raw, Red Meat
ONE afternoon, a few days later, Beatrice hunted up Jane. 'How much money have you got, Janie?' she asked.
'Four dollars and thirty-five cents,' Jane said, after investigation. 'Dad gave me five dollars at the station. I bought some popcorn
andтАФwellтАФdifferent things.'
'Gee, I'm glad you came when you did.' Beatrice blew out a long breath. Tacitly it was agreed that the prevalent socialism of
childhood clubs would apply in this more urgent clubbing together of interests. Jane's small hoard was available not for any
individual among them, but for the good of the group. 'We were running out of money,' Beatrice said. 'Granny caught us taking
meat out of the icebox and we don't dare any more. But we can get a lot with your money.'
Neither of them thought of the inevitable time when that fund would be exhausted. Four dollars and thirty-five cents seemed
fabulous, in that era. And they needn't buy expensive meat, so long as it was raw and bloody.
They walked together down the acacia-shaded street with its occasional leaning palms and drooping pepper-trees. They bought
two pounds of hamburger and improvidently squandered twenty cents on sodas.
When they got back to the house, Sunday lethargy had set in. Uncles Simon and James had gone out for cigars, and Uncle
Lew and Bert were reading the papers, while Aunt Bessie crocheted. Grandmother Keaton read 'Young's Magazine', diligently
seeking spicy passages. The two girls paused behind the beaded portieres, looking in.
'Come on, kids,' Lew said in his deep, resonant voice. 'Seen the funnies yet? Mutt and Jeff are good. And Spark PlugтАФтАФтАФ'
'Mr. Gibson is good enough for me,' Grandmother Keaton said. 'He's a real artist. His people look like people.'
The door banged open and Uncle James appeared, fat, grinning, obviously happy from several beers. Uncle Simon paced him like
a personified conscience.
'At any rate, it's quiet,' he said, turning a sour glance on Jane and Beatrice. 'The children make such a rumpus sometimes I can't
hear myself think.'
'Granny,' Beatrice asked, 'where are the kids?'
'In the kitchen, I think, dear. They wanted some water for something.'
'Thanks.' The two girls went out, leaving the room filled with a growing atmosphere of sub-threshold discomfort. The sheep were
sensing the wolf among them, but the sheepskin disguise was sufficient. They did not know. . . .
The kids were in the kitchen, busily painting one section of the comics with brushes and water. When you did that, pictures
emerged. One page of the newspaper had been chemically treated so that moisture would bring out the various colors, dull pastels,