"Laura Resnick - The Abominable Snowman" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Laura)

tundra.
Moreover, Yeti was a pacifist, which was apparently one of the reasons
he'd had to leave China so quickly after the Mongol invasions. He was always a
little secretive about his past, and no one really knew much about what he'd
done in Siberia and the Gobi Desert before turning up in Santa's Village. He
was, however, usually the first one to welcome a newcomer to the North Pole --
though perhaps that's because his cave was invariably the first place
wanderers and wayfarers stumbled across after getting lost.
So, you're probably wondering how a vegetable-eating, xenophilous
pacifist got a reputation like Yeti's. Well, to be honest, his appearance had
a lot to do with it. He stood about nine feet tall and was covered with thick,
shaggy, white fur from head to toe. His hands and feet were tipped with great,
gleaming, razor-sharp, silver claws, and the many white fangs in his mouth
made anyone who didn't know him very well feel quite skeptical about his
professed vegetarianism. His massive torso contained four stomachs, all of
which growled loudly and incessantly; no amount of herbal tea could silence
them, and a course of prescribed antacids had only made the whole situation
worse. Finally, his icy, glowing eyes had an unnerving habit of rotating
independently, giving him a half-mad look just when he was trying to put
someone at ease. All in all, one could forgive elves, who are small, timorous
creatures, for being terrified of Yeti. Now Yeti didn't really mind the
isolation all that much. After all, the hothouse garden he kept deep in the
recesses of his cave took a great deal of his time and attention; he was
attempting to grow his own bok choy, bean sprouts, and snowpeas, and the
project was extremely demanding. He was also a great reader and was, at the
time of the events about to be related, halfway through the Russian romantics.
_All_ of them.
It was a typical day, then, which found Yeti testing soil temperatures
in his artificially lighted greenhouse and pondering the problems of Anna
Karenina, when Santa came to call.
"Good morning, Yeti!" Kris Kringle cried merrily, his jowls shaking
with good-natured mirth, his chins quivering, his cheerful blue eyes very
nearly concealed by his layers of fat.
"Morning, Kris," Yeti said gloomily. "You've put on a little weight,
haven't you?"
"Ho, ho, ho!" Kris patted his vast belly and beamed with pride. "Got to
keep warm, you know!"
"I know." Yeti sniffed.
"Is that bronchitis of yours still hanging on?" Kris asked with
concern.
Yeti nodded. "I hate this weather," he said morosely.
"You must get some real food into you, son! Mrs. Kringle sent me to
invite you for Christmas dinner."
"Oh, thanks, Kris, but I don't think -- "
"Oh, pish!" cried Kris, which was strong language for him. "You've made
excuses for the past three years, Yeti. It's time you got out of this cave,
socialized, and ate a hearty meal."
"Kris, no offense intended, but one of Mrs. Kringle's Christmas meals
could raise my cholesterol count to disastrous levels. Breaded veal with cream
sauce, croissants, cheesecake, egg nog..." Yeti shuddered feelingly.