"Philip E. High - These Savage Futurians" - читать интересную книгу автора (High Phillip E)

He had often seen wild cats beyond the villages but these! They bore the
shape of cats but there the resemblance ended. The head was flatter and
wider, the fangs longer and unpleasantly curved. The claws, too, were like
gray curved knives, apparently did not retract and appeared to grip the
ground like sharp unbending fingers.

It was their general appearance, however, which appalled him
most—the creatures were furless. The skin was a dull blotchy gray and as
smooth as plastic. It made them look sly, vicious and, in some inexplicable
way, obscene.

They watched the man unblinkingly, flat naked heads close to the
ground and, periodically, as if following some precise plan, one or other of
the creatures would arch its back, straighten its legs and hiss like a
spitting kettle.

Ventnor, stiff with terror, saw one of the creatures at the far end of the
arc suddenly race forward on stiff legs and leap. The speed with which it
moved was incredible.

The bright metal weapon swung in a glittering arc—too late. The
creature was back to its original position long before the defensive blow
had completed its sweep but, on the man's naked forearm, another line of
deep scratches began to ooze scarlet

Ventnor was not sufficiently literate to put mental words to what he saw
but inwardly, deep in his mind, he understood. These creatures were
semi-intelligent and were working to a precise plan. They went in, clawed,
and were gone before the man could defend himself for, despite his
weapon, they were too fast for him. In due course, sheer exhaustion and
loss of blood would bring the man to his knees and then the whole pack
would move in as a single unit and claw him to pieces.

Ventnor glanced cautiously over his shoulder, wondering if he could
creep back unnoticed. The rubble over which he had crawled, however,
looked heaped and singularly precarious. He'd never get back without
making a noise.

He looked again at the man, weapon still clutched desperately in his
hand, and was suddenly conscious of a curious and unfamiliar
compassion. Alone, the man hadn't a chance—not a chance. A sense of
lightness, of responsibility began to assert itself in Ventnor's mind despite
his natural terror.

He hesitated, undecided, moved slightly and, beneath his left elbow, a
huge piece of rubble moved slightly as if balanced on something beneath.

It was the movement which gave him the idea. Cautiously, and with
agonizing slowness, he assumed a crouching position, bent forward and