"Eric Frank Russell - The Rhythm of the Rats" - читать интересную книгу автора (Russell Eric Frank)

looked at me with the subdued surprise of those who have not registered a true
emotion for countless years. As I came up to them, the elder man said swiftly to the
others, speaking in a language I could understand, "Something has gone wrong.
Leave this to me." He took a step toward me, lifting his brows inquiringly.
I told him about the plane, pointing to the castle of the Giant Ghormandel and the
pale, thin wisp of smoke creeping upward behind it. My speech was swift, rather
incoherent, and made with complete disregard of grammatical rules of a language
which was not my own. Nevertheless, he got the gist of it. Events must have tried me
more than I'd realized, for immediately it was evident that he understood, I felt weak
in the pit of my stomach and sat in the cattle-track to beat myself to the fall. The
world commenced whirling as he bent to support me, stooping over me like a mighty
ghost. Later, it could not have been much later, I found myself in bed staring at a
row of copper pots lined upon the mantelshelf, and a religious picture on the wall.
The pots were dull but not dusty. The picture was faded, a little spotty. The window
curtains had been darned but not dyed; they swayed in a slight draught, old and
colorless. Even the wallpaper had been carefully stuck down where it tended to curl
but was so aged that it should have been replaced years before. The general
impression was not one of extreme poverty, but rather of tidiness which has been
brought to its minimum in terms of bare necessity, a natural neatness which has been
deprived of heart by causes unknown.
Presently the man to whom I had spoken came in. Let him be called Hansi
because that was not his name. He came to my bed, blank-faced as a wooden image,
and addressed me in tones devoid of vibrancy. It was like hearing the mechanical
voice of an automaton.
"You are feeling better?"
I nodded. "Yes, thank you."
"That is good." He hesitated, went on. "Had you any friends or relations in that
machine?"
"None."
If he was surprised he did not show it. His eyes turned toward me, turned away.
He thought a while.
"We have sent a party to recover the bodies. The authorities will be notified as
soon as possible."
"You could telephone them," I suggested.
"There is no telephone. There is no car. There is nothing." He said it in a dull
monotone.
"Then how do youтАФ?"
"We walk. Did not the good God give us legs with which to walk? So we walk
along eighteen miles of tracks and woodland trails and across two rope bridges to
the nearest telephone. No vehicle can get here. The bodies will have to be carried
out." His eyes came back again. "As you will have to be carried if you cannot walk."
"I can walk," I told him.
"Eighteen miles?" His eyebrows rose a little.
"WellтАж wellтАФ" I hesitated.
"It is a pity the hour is so late," he continued, staring at the window as if it framed
something pertaining to his remark. "Night comes upon us very soon. If you had
been here earlier we might have got you away before the fall of darkness. But
now"тАФ he shook his head slowlyтАФ"it is impossible. You must stayтАФone night."
He repeated it, making it significant. "One night."
"I don't mind," I assured.