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

was making itself felt. I offered no resistance to Hansi, made no protest, but lay on
the bed and watched him while my mind incubated a terrible fear born of the
narrowness of my escape.
Moving a heavy, wheel-back chair near to the window, Hansi sat himself in it,
showed clearly that he was there for the remainder of the night. He did not say a
word. His bearing was that of one whose only weapon against powers of darkness is
an uncompromising stubbornness.
Increasing coldness persuaded me to pull the bedcovers over myself. I lay flat on
my back, perspiring freely and shivering at the same time, and vaguely sensing the
stickiness of partially congealed blood on one hand. Sounds from outside came
clearly through the broken pane: a dull snapping of trodden twigs, stamping of
boots, mutter of voices as hunters sought in vain for the body of the hunted.
Soon I went to sleep, exhausted with a surfeit of nervous strain. Dreams came to
me, some muddled and inconsequential, one topical and horribly vivid. In that one I
was blissfully running at the heels of a prancing imbecile, drinking in his never-ending
song and following him through dell and thicket, across moonlit glades and streams,
climbing higher always higher until we reached Ghormandel's shattered walls. And
there he turned and looked at me, still piping. I was small, very small—and had a
thin, hairless tail.
They rushed me away with the morning. I had breakfast in a hurry, set off with
Hansi and a solemn, lantern-jawed man named Klaus. A few women stood at their
doorways and watched me go, their eyes yearning and spurning precisely as they
had done before. I felt that they regretted my departure and yet were glad, immensely
glad. One waved to me and I waved back. No other responded. The sadness of the
village deepened as we left, deepened to an awful sorrow too soul-searing to forget.
One hour's march, fifteen minutes' rest; one hour's march, fifteen minutes' rest. At
a steady pace of three miles an hour the trip was easy. By the fourth rest-period the
giant's castle had shrunk to no more than a faintly discernible excrescence upon a
distant rise. I sat on a stone, watched the nearest trees and listened with my mind.
"Hansi, who was it that came in the night?"
"Forget him," he advised curtly.
I persisted, "Does he belong to the ruined castle?"
"In a way." He got up, prepared to move on. "Forget him—it is best."
We continued on our way. I noticed that neither man eyed the trees as I eyed
them, nor listened as I listened. They progressed in stolid silence, following the path,
looking neither to the right nor left. It seemed to be accepted that by day they were
free from that which was to be feared by night.
Midafternoon, footsore but not tired, we arrived at a small country town. It may
have been sleepy and backward, but by my standards it was full of vivacity and
sophistication. One could not help but contrast its bustling liveliness with the dreary,
anaemic place from which I had come.
Hansi had a long talk with the police who made several telephone calls, gave me a
meal, filled up forms which Hansi signed. They issued me with a train-ticket. Hansi
accompanied me to the station. There, I used half an hour's wait to pester him again.
"Who was it? Tell me!"
He gave in reluctantly, speaking like one forced to discuss a highly distasteful
subject. "He is the son of his father and the son of his mother."
"Of course," I scoffed. "What else could he be?"
Ignoring me, he went on. "Long ago his mother used her evil arts to kill his father,
Ghormandel. From then on she ruled the roost by fire, bell, candle and