Мгла
The Coming of the Storm.
Moreworkforthedentist.
Thethunderheadsweregettingcloser,pushingawaytheblue.Therewasnodoubtnowthatastormwascoming.Nortonhadturnedoffhisradio.Billysatbetweenhismotherandme,watchingthesky,fascinated.Thunderboomed,rollingslowlyacrossthelakeandthenechoingbackagain.Thecloudstwistedandrolled,nowblack,nowpurple,nowveined,nowblackagain.Theygraduallyoverspreadthelake,andIcouldseeadelicatecaulofrainextendingdownfromthem.Itwasstilladistanceaway.Aswewatched,itwasprobablyrainingonBolster’sMills,ormaybeevenNorway.
Theairbegantomove,jerkilyatfirst,liftingtheflagandthendroppingitagain.Itbegantofreshenandgrewsteady,firstcoolingtheperspirationonourbodiesandthenseemingtofreezeit.
ThatwaswhenIsawthesilverveilrollingacrossthelake.ItblottedoutHarrisoninsecondsandthencamestraightatus.Thepowerboatshadvacatedthescene.
Billystoodupfromhischair,whichwasaminiaturereplicaofourdirector’schairs,completewithhisnameprintedontheback."Daddy!Look!"
"Let’sgoin,"Isaid.Istoodupandputmyarmaroundhisshoulders.
"Butdoyouseeit?Dad,whatisit?"
"Awater-cyclone.Let’sgoin."
Steffthrewaquick,startledglanceatmyfaceandthensaid,"Comeon,Billy.Dowhatyourfathersays."
Wewentinthroughtheslidingglassdoorsthatgiveonthelivingroom.Islidthedoorshutonitstrackandpausedforanotherlookout.Thesilverveilwasthree-quartersofthewayacrossthelake.
