"Fritz Leiber - The Hound" - читать интересную книгу автора (Leiber Fritz)

The Hound




The Hound
Fritz Leiber
David Lashley huddled the skimpy blankets around him and dully
watched the cold light of an early spring morning seep through the
window and stiffen in his room. He could not recall the exact nature
of the terror against which he had fought his way into wakefulness,
except that it had been in some way gigantic and had brought back
to him the fear-ridden helplessness of childhood. It had lurked near
him all night, and finally it had crouched over him and thrust down
toward his face. The radiator whined dismally with the first push of
steam from the basement, and he shivered in response. He thought
that his shivering was an ironically humorous recognition of the fact
that his room was never warm except when he was out of it. But
there was more to it than that. The penetrating whine had touched
something in his mind without being quite able to dislodge it and
bring it into consciousness. The mounting rumble of city traffic,
together with the hoarse panting of a locomotive in the railroad
yards, mingled themselves with the nearer sound, intensifying its
disturbing tug at hidden fears. For a few moments he lay inert,
listening. There was an unpleasant stench, too, in the room, he
noticed, but that was nothing to be surprised at. He had experienced
before the strange olfactory illusions that are part of the aftermath of
sinus trouble and flu. Then he heard his mother moving around
laboriously in the kitchen, and that stung him into action.


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The Hound


"Have you caught another cold?" she asked, watching him
anxiously as he hurriedly spooned in a boiled egg before its heat
should be entirely lost in the chilly plate. "Are you sure?" she
persisted. "I heard someone sniffling all night."
"Perhaps fatherтАФ" he began. She shook her head. "No, he's all
right. His side was giving him a lot of pain yesterday evening, but
he slept quietly enough. That's why I thought it must be you, David.
I got up twice to see, but"тАФher voice became a little dolefulтАФ"I
know you don't like me to come poking into your room at all hours."
"That's not true!" he contradicted. She looked so frail and little and
worn, standing there in front of the stove with one of father's
shapeless bathrobes hugged around her, so like a sick sparrow
trying to appear chipper, that a futile irritation, and an indignation
that he couldn't help her more, welled up within him, choking his
voice a little. "It's that I don't want you getting up all the time, and