"Theodore Sturgeon - Fluffy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sturgeon Theodore)

He couldn't tell whether it was an hour after he had fallen asleep, or whether he had not fallen asleep
at all. But he found himself sitting on the edge of the bed, wide awake, straining every nerve for the
source of theтАФwhat was it?тАФsound?тАФthat had awakened him. The old house was as quiet as a city
morgue after closing time, and he could see nothing in the tall, dark guest-room but the moon-silvered
windows and the thick blacknesses that were drapes. Any old damn thing might be hiding behind those
drapes, he thought comfortingly. He edged himself back on the bed and quickly snatched his feet off the
floor. Not that anything was under the bed, but stillтАФ
A white object puffed along the floor through the moonbeams toward him. He made no sound, but
tensed himself, ready to attack or defend, dodge or retreat. Ransome was by no means an admirable
character, but he owed his reputation and therefore his existence to this particular trait, the ability to poise
himself, invulnerable to surprise. Try arguing with a man like that sometime.
The white object paused to stare at him out of its yellow-green eyes. It was only FluffyтАФFluffy
looking casual and easy-going and not at all in a mood to frighten people. In fact he looked up at
Ransome's gradually relaxing bulk and raised a long-hair, quizzical eyebrow, as if he rather enjoyed the
man's discomfiture.
Ransome withstood the cat's gaze with suavity, and stretched himself out on the bed with every bit of
Fluffy's own easy grace. "Well," he said amusedly, "You gave me a jolt! Weren't you taught to knock
before you entered a gentleman's boudoir?"
Fluffy raised a velvet paw and touched it pinkly with his tongue. "Do you take me for a barbarian?"
he asked.
Ransome's lids seemed to get heavy, the only sign he ever gave of being taken aback. He didn't
believe for a moment that the cat had really spoken, but there was something about the voice he had
heard that was more than a little familiar. This was, of course, someone's idea of a joke.
Good GodтАФit had to be a joke!
Well, he had to hear that voice again before he could place it. "You didn't say anything, of course,"
he told the cat, "but if you did, what was it?"
"You heard me the first time," said the cat, and jumped up on the foot of his bed. Ransome inched
back from the animal. "Yes," he said, "IтАФthought I did." Where on earth had he heard that voice before?
"You know," he said, with an attempt at jocularity, "You should, under these circumstances, have written
me a note before you knocked."
"I refuse to be burdened with the so-called social amenities," said Fluffy. His coat was spotlessly
clean, and he looked like an advertising photograph for eiderdown, but he began to wash carefully. "I
don't like you, Ransome."
"Thanks," chuckled Ransome, surprised. "I don't like you either."
"Why ?" asked Fluffy.

RANSOME told himself silently that he was damned. He had recognized the cat's voice, and it was
a credit to his powers of observation that he had. It was his own voice. He held tight to a mind that
would begin to reel on slight provocation, and, as usual when bemused, he flung out a smoke-screen of
his own variety of glib chatter.
"Reasons for not liking you," he said, "Are legion. They are all included in the one phraseтАФтАШYou are
a catтАЩ."
"I have heard you say that at least twice before," said Fluffy, "Except that you have now substituted
'cat' for `woman'."
"Your attitude is offensive. Is any given truth any the less true for having been uttered more than
once?"
"No," said the cat with equanimity. "But it is just that more cliched."
 Ransome laughed. "Quite aside from the fact that you can talk, I find you most refreshing. No one
has ever criticized my particular variety of repartee before."
"No one was ever wise to you before," said the cat. "Why don't you like cats?"