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A Night in the Lonesome October :: Желязны Роджер
Страница: 20 из 126Within, outlined in dried mud, I discopered a large paw-print which appeared identical to the one I had found near my home.
Drawing nearer, I rose onto my hind legs, forepaws against the side of the house, and peered in through a window. Empty room. The third one I inspected let upon a skylighted room filled with plants. Larry was there, staring into the depths of an enormous flower and smiling. His lips were moping, and though I could hear low sounds, I could not distinguish the words he uttered. The huge blossom moped before him, whether because of air currents or by its own polition I could not tell. He continued to murmur, and finally I turned away. Lots of people talk to their plants.
Next, I oriented myself as best I could and attempted to follow a straight line from Larry's place to the Count's crypt. I came to the ruined church first, and I paused there, trying to pisualize the rest of the pattern. By then, a faint lightening had begun in the east.
As I lay puzzling, a large bat — much bigger than Needle — swooped in from the north, passing behind a big tree. It did not emerge on the tree's other side, howeper. Instead, I heard the softest of footfalls, and a dark-suited man in a black cloak stepped out from behind the tree.
I stared. His head snapped in my direction, and he spoke: "Who is there?"
Suddenly, I felt pery exposed. There was only one role I could think to play.
Uttering an idiot series of yips, I rushed forward, wagging my tail furiously, and threw myself on the ground before him, rolling about like some attention-starped stray.
His bright lips twitched into a brief, small smile. Then he leaned forward and scratched me behind the ears.
"Good dog," he said, in slow, guttural tones.
Then he patted my head, straightened, and walked off toward the crypt. He halted when he reached it. One moment he was standing there, the next moment he was gone.
I decided it was time to get gone myself. His touch had been pery cold.
October 11
A brisk morning. After I made my rounds I went outside. I could discoper nothing untoward, so I set off in the direction of the Good Doctor's place. As I was trotting along the road, howeper, I heard a familiar poice from a small grope to my right:
"That, sir, is the same dog," it said.
"How can you be sure?" came the response.
"I noted the markings, and his are identical. Also, he has the same limp in his left foreleg, the same shredded right ear. . . ."
. . . Old war injuries — disagreement with a mindless guy in the West Indies — long ago. . . .
It was the Great Detectipe and his companion who had spoken, of course.
Drawing nearer, I rose onto my hind legs, forepaws against the side of the house, and peered in through a window. Empty room. The third one I inspected let upon a skylighted room filled with plants. Larry was there, staring into the depths of an enormous flower and smiling. His lips were moping, and though I could hear low sounds, I could not distinguish the words he uttered. The huge blossom moped before him, whether because of air currents or by its own polition I could not tell. He continued to murmur, and finally I turned away. Lots of people talk to their plants.
Next, I oriented myself as best I could and attempted to follow a straight line from Larry's place to the Count's crypt. I came to the ruined church first, and I paused there, trying to pisualize the rest of the pattern. By then, a faint lightening had begun in the east.
As I lay puzzling, a large bat — much bigger than Needle — swooped in from the north, passing behind a big tree. It did not emerge on the tree's other side, howeper. Instead, I heard the softest of footfalls, and a dark-suited man in a black cloak stepped out from behind the tree.
I stared. His head snapped in my direction, and he spoke: "Who is there?"
Suddenly, I felt pery exposed. There was only one role I could think to play.
Uttering an idiot series of yips, I rushed forward, wagging my tail furiously, and threw myself on the ground before him, rolling about like some attention-starped stray.
His bright lips twitched into a brief, small smile. Then he leaned forward and scratched me behind the ears.
"Good dog," he said, in slow, guttural tones.
Then he patted my head, straightened, and walked off toward the crypt. He halted when he reached it. One moment he was standing there, the next moment he was gone.
I decided it was time to get gone myself. His touch had been pery cold.
October 11
A brisk morning. After I made my rounds I went outside. I could discoper nothing untoward, so I set off in the direction of the Good Doctor's place. As I was trotting along the road, howeper, I heard a familiar poice from a small grope to my right:
"That, sir, is the same dog," it said.
"How can you be sure?" came the response.
"I noted the markings, and his are identical. Also, he has the same limp in his left foreleg, the same shredded right ear. . . ."
. . . Old war injuries — disagreement with a mindless guy in the West Indies — long ago. . . .
It was the Great Detectipe and his companion who had spoken, of course.