"Arthur Porges - The Fly" - читать интересную книгу автора (Porges Arthur)

manipulated by a conjurer, the bluebottle fly had appeared from nowhere.
It was an exceptionally fine specimen, he decided; large, perfectly formed,
and brilliantly rich in hue.
He eyed the insect wonderingly. Where was the usual panic, the frantic
struggling, the shrill, terrified buzzing? It rested there with an odd
indifference to restraint that puzzled him.
There was at least one reasonable explanation. The fly might be sick or
dying, the prey of parasites. Fungi and the ubiquitous roundworms
shattered the ranks of even the most fertile. So unnaturally still was this fly
that the spider, wholly unaware of its feathery landing, dreamed on in her
shaded lair.
Then, as he watched, the bluebottle, stupidly perverse, gave a single
sharp tug; its powerful wings blurred momentarily, and a high-pitched
buzz sounded. The man sighed, almost tempted to interfere. Not that it
mattered how soon the fly betrayed itself. Eventually the spider would
have made a routine inspection; and unlike most people, he knew her for a
staunch friend of man, a tireless killer of insect pests. It was not for him to
steal her dinner and tear her web.
But now, silent and swift, a pea on eight hairy, agile legs, she glided over
her swaying net. An age-old tragedy was about to be enacted, and the man
waited with pitying interest for the inevitable denouement.
About an inch from her prey, the spider paused briefly, estimating the
situation with diamond-bright, soul-less eyes. The man knew what would
follow. Utterly contemptuous of a mere fly, however large, lacking either
sting or fangs, the spider would unhesitatingly close in, swathe the insect
with silk, and drag it to her nest in the rock, there to be drained at leisure.
But instead of a fearless attack, the spider edged cautiously nearer. She
seemed doubtful, even uneasy. The fly's strange passivity apparently
worried her. He saw the needle-pointed mandibles working, ludicrously
suggestive of a woman wringing her hands in agonized indecision.
Reluctantly she crept forward. In a moment she would turn about,
squirt a preliminary jet of silk over the bluebottle, and by dexterously
rotating the fly with her hind legs, wrap it in a gleaming shroud.
And so it appeared, for satisfied with a closer inspection, she forgot her
fears and whirled, thrusting her spinnerets towards the motionless insect.
Then the man saw a startling, an incredible thing. There was a metallic
flash as a jointed, shining rod stabbed from the fly's head like some
fantastic rapier. It licked out with lightning precision, pierced the spider's
plump abdomen, and remained extended, forming a terrible link between
them.
He gulped, tense with disbelief. A bluebottle fly, a mere lapper of
carrion, with an extensible, sucking proboscis! It was impossible. Its
tongue is only an absorbing cushion, designed for sponging up liquids. But
then was this really a fly after all? Insects often mimic each other, and he
was no longer familiar with such points. No, a bluebottle is unmistakable;
besides, this was a true fly: two wings and everything. Rusty or not, he
knew that much.
The spider had stiffened as the queer lance struck home; now she was
rigid, obviously paralysed. And her swollen abdomen was contracting like
a tiny fist as the fly sucked its juices through that slender, pulsating tube.