День триффидов
Journey in Hope
Thechildwasdressedinabluecottonfrock,whitesocks,andsandals.Shelookedaboutnineortenyearsold.Aprettyttlegirl—Icouldseethat,eventhoughherdarkbrowncurlswerenowuncaredforandherfacedirtiedwithsmearedtears.Shepulledatmysleeve.
"Please,please,"shesaidurgently,"pleasecomeandseewhat’shappenedtoTommy."
Istoodstaringdownather.Theawfullonelinessofthedaylifted.MymindseemedtobreakoutofthecaseIhadmadeforit.Iwantedtopickherupandholdherclosetome.Icouldfeeltearsbehindmyeyes.Iheldoutmyhandtoher,andshetookit.Togetherwewalkedbacktothegatethroughwhichshehadcome.
"Tommy’sthere,"shesaid,pointing.
Alittleboyaboutfouryearsofagelayonthediminutivepatchoflawnbetweentheflowerbeds.Itwasquiteobviousataglancewhyhewasthere.
"Thethinghithim,"shesaid."Ithithimandhefelldown.AnditwantedtohitmewhenItriedtohelphim.Horriblething!"
Ilookedupandsawthetopofatriffidrisingabovethefencethatborderedthegarden.
"Putyourbandsoveryourears.I’mgoingtomakeabang,"Isaid.
Shedidso,andIblastedthetopoffthetriffid.
"Horriblething!"sherepeated."Isitdeadnow?"
Iwasabouttoassureherthatitwas,whenitbegantorattlethelittlesticksagainstitsstem,justastheoneatSteepleHoneyhaddone.Asthen,Igaveittheotherbarreltoshutitup.
"Yes"Isaid."It’sdeadnow."
Wewalkedacrosstothelittleboy.
