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

'AhЧthe kids are coming now,' Aunt Gertrude was saying from a long way off.

Jane heard her dimly, and then more clearly, and then suddenly Grandmother Keaton's lap was soft beneath her again, and she was back in the familiar room. 'A herd of elephants on the stairs, eh?' Aunt Gertrude said.

They were returning. Jane could hear them too now. Really, they were making much less noise than usual. They were subdued until about half-way down the stairs, and then there was a sudden outburst of clattering and chatter that rang false to Jane's ears.

The children came in, Beatrice a little white, Emily pink and puffy around the eyes. Charles was bubbling over with repressed excitement, but Bobby, the smallest, was glum and bored. At sight of Aunt Gertrude, the uproar redoubled, though Beatrice exchanged a quick, significant glance with Jane.

Then presents and noise, and the uncles coming back in; excited discussion of the trip to Santa BarbaraЧa strained cheeri-ness that, somehow, kept dying down into heavy silence.

None of the adults ever really looked over their shoulders, but Чthe feeling was of bad things to come.

Only the childrenЧnot even Aunt GertrudeЧwere aware of the complete emptiness of the Wrong Uncle. The projection of a lazy, torpid, semi-mindless entity. Superficially he was as convincingly human as if he had never focused his hunger here under this roof, never let his thoughts whirl through the minds of the children, never remembered his red, dripping feasts of other times and places.

He was very sated now. They could feel the torpor pulsing out in slow, drowsy waves so that all the grown-ups were yawning and wondering why. But even now he was empty. Not real. The 'Nobody-there' feeling was as acute as ever to all the small, keen, perceptive minds that saw him as he was.

Chapter 3. Sated Eater

LATER, at bedtime, only Charles wanted to talk about the matter. It seemed to Jane that Beatrice had grown up a little since the early afternoon. Bobby was reading 'The Jungle Book,' or pretending to, with much pleased admiration of the pictures showing Shere Khan, the tiger. Emily had turned her face to the wall and was pretending to be asleep.

'Aunt Bessie called me,' Jane told her, sensing a faint reproach.

'I tried as soon as I could to get away from her. She wanted to try that collar thing on me.'

'Oh.' The apology was accepted. But Beatrice still refused to talk. Jane went over to Emily's bed and put her arm around the little girl.

'Mad at me, Emily?'

'No.'

'You are, though. I couldn't help it, honey.'

'It was all right,' Emily said, 'I didn't care.'

'All bright and shiny,' Charles said sleepily. 'Like a Christmas tree.'

Beatrice whirled on him. 'Shut up!' she cried 'Shut up, Charles! Shut up, shut up, shut up \'

Aunt Bessie put her head into the room.

'What's the matter, children?' she asked.

'Nothing, Auntie,' Beatrice said. 'We were just playing.'

Fed, temporarily satiated, it lay torpid in its curious nest. The house was silent, the occupants asleep. Even the Wrong Uncle slept, for Ruggedo was a good mimic.

The Wrong Uncle was not a phantasm, not a mere projection of Ruggedo. As an amoeba extends a pseudopod toward food, so Ruggedo had extended and created the Wrong Uncle. But there the parallel stopped. For die Wrong Uncle was not an elastic extension diat could be witiidrawn at will. Rather, heЧitЧwas a permanent limb, as a man's arm is. From the brain through the neural system die message goes, and the arm stretches out, the fingers constrictЧand there is food in the hand's grip.

But Ruggedo's extension was less limited. It was not permanently bound bv rieid natural laws of rr>c,ttpr. An arm may be painted black. And the Wrong Uncle looked and acted human, except to clear immature eyes.