"Stanley G. Weinbaum - Proteus Island" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weinbaum Stanley G)

could have occurred in ten or fifteen years?

Carver came suddenly upon a narrow tidal arm into which dropped a tinkling trickle of water from a
granite ledge at the verge of the jungle. He stooped, moistened his finger, and tasted it. It was brackish
but drinkable, and therefore quite satisfactory. He could hardly expect to find a larger stream on Austin,
since the watershed was too small on an island only seven miles by three. With his eyes he followed the
course of the brook up into the tangle of fern forest, and a flash of movement arrested his eyes. For a
moment he gazed in complete incredulity, knowing that he couldn't possibly be seeingтАФwhat he was
seeing!
The creature had apparently been drinking at the brink of the stream, for Carver glimpsed it first in
kneeling position. That was part of the surpriseтАФthe fact that it was kneelingтАФfor no animal save man
ever assumes that attitude, and this being, whatever it might be, was not human.

Wild, yellow eyes glared back at him, and the thing rose to an erect posture. It was a biped, a small
travesty; of man, standing no more than twenty inches in height. Little clawed fingers clutched at hanging
creepers. Carver had a shocked glimpse of a body covered in patches with ragged gray fur, of an agile
tail, of needle-sharp teeth in a little red mouth. But mostly he saw only malevolent yellow eyes and a face
that was not human, yet had a hideous suggestion of humanity gone wild, a stunning miniature synthesis of
manlike and feline characteristics. Carver had spent much time in the wastelands of the planet. His
reaction was almost in the nature of a reflex, without thought or volition; his blue-barreled gun leaped and
flashed as if it moved of itself. This automatism was a valuable quality in the wilder portions of the earth;
more than once he had saved his life by shooting first when startled, and reflecting afterward. But the
quickness of the reaction did not lend itself to accuracy.

His bullet tore a leaf at the very cheek of the creature. The thing snarled, and then, with a final flash of
yellow flame from its wild eyes, leaped headlong into the tangle of foliage and vanished.

Carver whistled. "What in Heaven's name," he muttered aloud, "was that?" But he had small time for
reflection; long shadows and an orange tint to the afternoon light warned that darknessтАФsudden,
twilightless darknessтАФwas near. He turned back along the curving beach toward the outrigger.

A low coral spit hid the craft and the two Maoris, and the ridge jutted like a bar squarely across the face
of the descending sun. Carver squinted against the light and trudged thoughtfully onwardтАФto freeze into
sudden immobility at the sound of a terrified scream from the direction of the proa!

He broke into a run. It was no more than a hundred yards to the coral ridge, but so swiftly did the sun
drop in these latitudes that dusk seemed to race him to the crest. Shadows skittered along the beach as
he leaped to the top and stared frantically toward the spot where his craft had been beached.

Something was there. A boxтАФpart of the provisions from the proa. But the proa itselfтАФwas gone!

Then he saw it, already a half dozen cables' lengths out in the bay. Malloa was crouching in the stern,
Kolu was partly hidden by the sail, as the craft moved swiftly and steadily out toward the darkness
gathering in the north.

His first impulse was to shout, and shout he did. Then he realized that they were beyond earshot, and
very deliberately, he fired his revolver three times. Twice he shot into the air, but since Malloa cast not
even a glance backward, the third bullet he sent carefully in the direction of the fleeing pair. Whether or
not it took effect he could not tell, but the proa only slid more swiftly into the black distance.