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

It was nothing that I could see. It could only be heard and then not with the ears.
Insidiously it penetrated the locked timber frame and tight panes of the casement,
pierced the very walls of the house, passed through the bones of my skull and
registered deep within my mind. A thin, reedy fluting which sounded sweet and low.
So soft and surreptitious was the sound that at first I mistook it for a figment of
the imagination, but as I sat and stared at the window the music persisted and
gradually swelled as if its source were creeping nearer, nearer.
Presently it was quite loud though still within my mind and completely unbearable
with my ears. It waxed and waned, joyful and plaintive by turns, sobbing down the
scale and chuckling up it, weeping a little and laughing a lot. An outlandish theme ran
through its trills and flourishes as a cord runs through a string of pearls. There was a
weird rhythm beating steadily within the tones and half-tones, a haunting off-beat,
fascinating, mind-trapping—and beckoning, continually beckoning.
Somehow I knew that it was for my mind alone, that others in the village could
not hear what I could hear. It went on and on, calling me, summoning me, and its
spasms of laughter drove away all fear until I wanted to laugh with it, carefree and
joyously. So powerful was its attraction that it drew me from bed, toward the
window where I stood and stared into the moonlight. There was nothing voluntary
about that action. My bemused mind obeyed the urge without previous thought; my
legs responded to my mind and bore me to the window. I got there with no
remembrance of the going. I merely arrived.
The pines and firs still stood in close array. The path was clearly lit and
completely empty. Not a soul was to be seen, yet the eerie music continued without
let or pause and the whole world seemed to be waiting, waiting for some
unguessable culmination.
My face was pressed close against the glass, almost trying to push through it and
get me nearer, if only an inch nearer, to that glorified flood of notes. The lilt chimed
and tinkled like fairy bells within my brain, and as it repeated again and again its
quality of attraction grew progressively stronger. It was a case of familiarity breeding
desire where, had I only known the truth, there would have been inutterable horror
and a mighty fear.
At moments the tonal sequences suggested speech though I could hear no actual
words. But words came with them into my mind from I knew not where, insinuated
with wondrous cunning beyond my capacity to understand. It was as if certain
ecstatic chords conjured parallel phrases, creating a dreadful dream-poetry which
percolated through the night.


Oh, come and tread the lazy leaves
 And dance through scented heather,
Play hide and seek amid the sheaves,
Or vault the hills together.
Cast care away before the dawn;
With me for everlasting
Run free while mothers sit and mourn,
A little r a t


I lost the run of words just then because a brief glimpse of color showed between
the standing trees while the music grew enormously both in volume and enticement.