День триффидов
Dead End
Theresponsewasconvincinglyblank.
"Pity,"saidCoker."That’dhavebeenourfirstrealstrokeofluckinquiteatime."
"Whatis,orare,Beadley’slot?"inquiredthefairman.
Iwasfeelingwiltedanddryaftersomehoursinthedrivingcabwiththesunonit.Isuggestedthatwemightremovediscussionfromthemiddleofthestreettosomemorecongenialspot.Wepassedroundtheirtrucksthroughafamiliarlitterofcasesofbiscuits,chestsoftea,sidesofbacon,sacksofsugar,blocksofsalt,andalltherestofittoasmallbarparlornextdoor.OverpintpotsCokerandIgavethemashortr&um6ofwhatwe’ddoneandwhatweknew.
Theywereanoddlyassortedtrio.Thefair-hairedmanturnedouttobeamemberoftheStockExchangebythenameofStephenBrennell.Hiscompanionwasagood-looking,well-builtgirlwithanoccasionalsuperficialpetulancebutnorealsurpriseoverwhateverlifemighthandhernext.Shehadledoneofthosefringecareers—modelingdresses,sellingthem,puttinginmovie-extrawork,missingopportunitiesofgoingtoHollywood,hostessingforobscureclubs,andhelpingouttheseactivitiesbysuchothermeansasofferedthemselves.
ShehadanutterlyunshakableconvictionthatnothingseriouscouldhavehappenedtoAmerica,andthatitwasonlyamatterofholdingoutforawhileuntiltheAmericansarrivedtoputeverythinginorder.ShewasquitetheleasttroubledpersonIhadencounteredsincethecatastrophetookplace.
