"S. A. Gorden - Eyes of an Eagle a Novel of Gravity Controlled" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gorden S A)

having a lot of hard disk accessing. A virus? This was why I had the old computer as my Internet access.
All my sensitive files were kept on my other computer. I ran my anti-virus programs and found nothing. I
then did a file check with my backup disks. Nothing. I gave up, thinking it was just a quirk in the system.

I was tired by the time I finished my system checks. I went to bed. As I dozed off, I felt the cat climb on
top of my chest. I scratched him behind his ears and under his chin. His front paws moved as he kneaded
my chest. I had to go to sleep. Tomorrow I would be taking supplies to my uncle. His rumbling purr
lulled me to oblivion. Somehow I knew before I drifted off that his eyes were open, watching.

When I woke up, Move-over was gone. I never saw the cat leave. He would just disappear for a few
hours or a few days if a local female was in heat. Every so often, he would come back with a new scar or
two. He would then stand in front of me and yowl until I would pick him up. A scratch under the chin and
a compliment about his fighting prowess, he would jump down and walk away with his tail high in the air
for a banner.

Today I didn't think much about the cat. I had to get the canoe on the pickup and my uncle's supplies
packed. My uncle was a hermit. He had gone to Vietnam when he was eighteen and served two tours of
duty before coming home. When I was younger, I could remember him coming home to the farm every
time he lost a job. One day I helped my father and uncle load a canoe with supplies. We drove north to a
river that flowed through a number of different state and national forests before entering the Rainy Lake
flowage. From the river's edge, we watched my uncle paddle away. We didn't hear from him for two
years. He had finally found a place he could live.

He had discovered a pocket of dry land surrounded by northern peat bogs. During the winter months,
you could get in by snowshoes. During the other seasons, you could only get in by canoe. He built a
shack on the high ground. Every so often, the forestry department would try to force him out. They never
tried too hard. To my knowledge, they never saw him except by air. The one time they tried to take apart
his shack my uncle stole their canoes. They were taken out of the swamps two days later by helicopter.
Their canoes showed up at a landing by Ely a week after that.

Over the years my uncle had a harder and harder time leaving the woods. Dad had started to bring
supplies to him three times each year. He would load a canoe and drift down the river. His brother would
show up within a matter of hours and they would head for his shack.

I loved my crazy uncle. It was nice having a truly eccentric relative in the family to talk about. He was not
a mean or violent man. It was just that no one had helped him come back from Vietnam. When we
talked, you could tell there was a part of him not there. He had become a part of his hideaway. Anything
that happened around his retreat, he knew about. Without leaving his shack, he knew if one of his snares
had been sprung or an animal was in a trap. He seemed to know about the tracks left by the animals
traveling though the bogs before he walked up to see them.

Today was a beautiful fall day. I drifted down the river enjoying the clean air and the river sounds. In the
years I had spent in Chicago, I could never remember a time without traffic sounds. I never got used to it.
I heard the loud deep call of a Pileated Woodpecker followed by the hammering as he searched for
food. As I drifted past a bend in the river, I saw a tree on the bank. It had a series of large holes nearly
tearing its trunk in half. The base of the tree was covered with large white splinters. The big black and
white woodpecker slowly fluttered to the tree. Instead of hammering at the tree or sending a call, the red
crested bird turned his head and watched me drift past. The hammering didn't start till I was out of sight.
“That was interesting,” said a soft voice from the shore. I jerked so fast I nearly tipped the canoe.