"Andre Norton - Cat Fantastic" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norton Andre)

"Why the cat?"
"What do we seek to have enter through the Gate?" the Master asked-as if only the abysmally stupid
would have to be reminded.
"The Puma," the little man said. Softly. The men nodded.
"And the fee to pass the Gate?"
"The Puma will bring with him one we do not need."
"You're sure it will be he who . . . pays?"
The Master's brows almost met. "You doubt me?"
The men assured him they did not doubt.
Feathers wanted to yowl, to hiss and scratch. She sat glued to the floor instead, filled with a combination
of terror and disgust. She had never heard of Gates, knew nothing of what the men spoke, and had no
idea what a Puma was. But paying the fee she understood. They planned to kill.
Why should it matter? She cared little for people.
Because to kill to eat or to protect was in the natural order of life. To kill to do a wrong was not.
A hand came down, grabbed her by the back of the neck, and dropped her into a lidded basket. A voice
chuckled. "A good choice, I think, to test the Gate. A small cat in exchange for a Puma."
"Mother!" Feathers screamed. She was, after all, not quite nine months old, and she was terribly
frightened.
They all laughed, and if Feathers had not been a cat, she would have fainted from dread.
The next night she saw nothing, heard things that, had she not been a cat, would have driven her mad,
and, at the last, was grabbed by those bloodless, bony, cruel fingers and pushed through something. She
fell into an icy rain puddle. Inside her, one of her babies died.

Librarians, in general, are pretty nice people. What faults and failings they have as individuals rarely cause
them to run down old ladies in crosswalks or kick puppies. Consequently, when Judith Justin, MLS, in
charge of the Bookmobile, made out the form of a cat half-crawling across the rainy road, she applied
the brakes with caution-and prayer. As she had been driving twenty miles caution-and hour for over
twenty miles, crouching forward on the seat and peering anxiously through the rain-drenched windows,
the opportunity to rest was sufficient inducement to overcome her dread of attempting to bring the heavy
vehicle to a safe stop.
Several members of the staff accused her of minor witchcraft if sorcery could have any effect on
machinery or other examples of cold iron. They insisted that the Bookmobile liked her. It did what she
asked it to, started when she turned the key, rocked out of sandtraps with alacrity, and steered between
obstacles , without even scratching the top coat of paint. It invariably had its flat tires, broken fuel lines,
and burned out light bulbs for other Bookmobile drivers. Never for Judith. So the brakes, wet as they
were, took hold smoothly and effectively, the rear half of the bus followed the front half instead of
skidding into the middle of the street, and the Bookmobile sat waiting patiently for the cat to cross.
Judith turned on the interior lights and opened the front door. An oblong of light wavered into the rainy
afternoon-dark, almost, as night.
"Here, kitty, kitty, kitty," Judith called. She never insulted her own cats with the phrase, but cats
somehow knew that people who called, "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty," offered food and shelter.
The most woebegone wail ever to issue from feline throat responded. Judith's heart turned over. She
shielded her face against the cold windshield and squinted out. Yes, the cat had turned and scrunched
under the bus.
Judith stood at the top of the steps and called again. The cat answered, but it did not enter.
Maybe it can't get up the first step, she thought. Not a big step for a healthy cat, but this one looked
almost as if a car had hit it.
Judith pulled on her poncho, scrunched it around her legs as she stooped, and squatted on the bottom
step.
"Kitty?"