"Harry Harrison - Captive Universe" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison Harry)

that morning and there was little time for thought. He passed the bird's nest that he had raided and felt his
only qualm. Now he was certainly higher than three men above the ground—but he was not trying to
climb to the top of the cliff, so he could not really be said to be breaking the law… A piece of rock gave
way under his fingers and he almost fell, his worries were instantly forgotten in the spurt of fear as he
scrabbled for a new hold. He climbed higher.

Just below the ledge Chimal stopped to rest with his toes wedged into a crack. There was an overhang
above him and there seemed to be no way around it. Searching the blackness of stone against the stars
his glance went over the valley and he shuddered and pressed himself against the cliff: he had not realized
before how high he had climbed. Stretching away below was the dark floor of the valley with his village
of Quilapa, then the deep cut of the river beyond. He could even make out the other village of Zaachila
and the far wall of the canyon. This was taboo—Coatlicue walked the river at night and the sight alone of
her twin serpent heads would instantly kill you and send you to the underworld. He shuddered and turned
his face to the stone. Hard rock, cold air, space all around him, loneliness that possessed him.

There was no way to know how long he hung like that, some minutes surely because his toes were numb
where they were wedged into the crevice. All he wanted to do now was to return safely to the ground, so
impossibly distant below, and only the wavering flame of his anger kept him from doing this. He would go
down, but first he would see how far the overhang ran. If he could not pass it he would have to return,
and he would have done his best to reach the ledge. Working his way around a rough spire he saw that
the overhang did run the length of the ledge—but an immense bite had been taken from the lip. At some
time in the past a falling boulder must have shattered it. There was a way up. With scratching fingers he
hauled himself up the slope until his head came above the level of the ledge.

Something black hurtled at him, buffeting his head, washing him in a foul and dusty smell. A spasm of
unreasoning fear clamped his hands onto the rock or he would have fallen, then the blackness was gone
and a great vulture flapped his way unsteadily out into the darkness. Chimal laughed out loud. There was
nothing here to be frightened of, he had reached the right spot and had disturbed the bird that must have
been perched up here, that was all. He pulled himself onto the ledge and stood up. The moon would be
rising soon, and was already glowing on a high band of clouds in the east, lighting the sky and blotting out
the stars there. The ledge was clear before him, empty of any other vultures, although it was foul with
their droppings. There was little else here of any interest, other than the black opening of a cave in the
rising wall of rock before him. He shuffled toward it, but there was nothing to be seen in the blackness of
its depths: he stopped at the dark entrance and could force himself to go no further. What could possibly
be in it? It would not be long before the moon rose and he might see better then. He would wait.

It was cold this high up, exposed to the wind, but he took no notice. The sky was growing lighter every
moment and grayness seeped into the cave, further and further from the entrance. When at last the
moonlight shone full into it he felt betrayed. There was nothing here to see. The cave wasn't a cave after
all, just a deep gouge in the face of the cliff that ended no more than two men's lengths inside the
opening. There was just rock, solid rock, with what appeared to be more rocks on the stony floor. He
pushed his foot at the nearest one and it moved squashily away from him. This was no rock—what could
it possibly be? He bent to pick it up and his fingers told him what it was at the same instant his nose
identified it.

Meat.

Horror drove him back and almost over the edge to his death. He stopped, at the very brink, trembling
and wiping his hand over and over again on the stone and gravel.