"Eric Frank Russell - The Rhythm of the Rats" - читать интересную книгу автора (Russell Eric Frank)

"We do!"
I sat up, putting my legs out of bed and pressing my feet on the floor to feel the
firmness of it. "Why?"
"There are reasons," he evaded. Going to the window, he peered out. Then he
closed the window, doing it with considerable care, making sure that it latched tightly
and that the latch was firmly home. Finally he fastened the latch with a strong
padlock. It was now impossible to open the casement, while its panes were far too
small to permit escape after the glass had been removed. Patting the pocket in which
he had put the key, he remarked, "That is that!"
After watching this performance I had a deep and frightening sense of
imprisonment. It must have shown in my features, but he chose to ignore it. Facing
me, he asked, "Do you like music?"
"Some," I admitted.
His lips thinned, drew back to expose white teeth, and he said with a sudden and
surprising venom that shocked me, "I hate music! We all hate music!"
This contrast with his previous impassiveness lent a terrible emphasis to his
words. It was an uncontrolled burst of passion from a source I'd mistakenly thought
dried up. It had all the elements of the unexpected, unnerving the listener as if he had
heard and seen a marble statue part its lips and curse.
"I hate music! We all hate music!"
Without saying more, he went away.
 Some ten or fifteen minutes afterward I decided that boredom served only to
enhance hunger. The recent disaster still affected me, the thick, cloying atmosphere
weighed heavily upon me. I needed something to eat and I yearned for company
other than that of my own thoughts. Putting on shoes, I pulled open the only door
and left the room.
Going slowly down an ornate but unpolished wooden staircase, I reached a small
hall. A dull fire glowed at one end, gave off the acrid smell noticed earlier. Nearby, a
crudely wrought table was covered with a gray cloth. The walls were paneled,
without picture or ornament of any kind. A bookcase full of dusty, seldom-used
tomes stood at one side.
There had been time only to survey all this when a woman appeared through an
archway at the other end. She was forty or thereabouts, tall, slender and as
sad-faced as any yet seen. Though her features remained set, a most peculiar
expression lurked within her eyes as she looked at me, a sort of hunger, an intense
yearning tempered and held in check by horror.
All she said was, "You wish for food?" and her eyes tried to draw me to her
while, at the same time, thrusting me away.
"Yes, lady," I admitted, watching her and wondering what lay behind that peculiar
gaze. Her desire for me was in no way embarrassing. Indeed, I felt within me that it
was clean, decent, but pitiful because of its thwarting.
Without another word she turned, went into the kitchen beyond the arch, came
back with black bread, heather-honey and fresh milk. I sat at the table and enjoyed
my meal as best I could despite that she spent the whole time standing near the fire
and eating me with her eyes. She did not speak again until I had finished.
"If you go outside you must be back before dark, well before dark."
"All right, lady." Anything to please her. Inwardly, I could conceive no prospect
more dismal than that of wandering around this village after dark. It was dispiriting
enough in broad daylight.
For some time, I don't know how long since I did not possess a watch, I