День триффидов
The Groping City
Shestillheldtheorangeinherhand,headbentdownasthoughshewerelookingatit.
"Allthesame,itdon’tseemright,"shesaidagain,buttherewaslessconvictioninhertone.
Presentlysheputthechilddownandbegantopeeltheorange...
PiccadillyCircuswasthemostpopulousplaceIhadfoundsofar.Itseemedcrowdedaftertherest,thoughtherewereprobablylessthanahundredpeoplethere,alltold.Mostlytheywerewearingqueer,ill-assortedclothesandwereprowlingrestlesslyaroundasthoughstillsemidazed.Occasionallyamishapwouldbringanoutburstofprofanityandfutilerage—ratheralarmingtohear,becauseitwasitselftheproductoffright,andchildishintemper.Butwithoneexceptiontherewaslittletalkandlittlenoise.Itseemedasthoughtheirblindnesshadshutpeopleintothemselves.
Theexceptionhadfoundhimselfapositionoutononeofthetrafficislands.Hewasatall,elderly,gauntmanwithabushofwirygrayhair,andhewasholdingforthemphaticallyaboutrepentance,thewrathtocome,andtheuncomfortableprospectsforsinners.Nobodywaspayinghimanyattention;formostofthemthedayofwrathhadalreadyarrived.
Then,fromadistance,cameasoundwhichcaughtevery-onesattention:agraduallyswellingchorus:
AndwhenIdie,
Don’tburymeatall,
Justpicklemybones
inalcohol.
Drearyanduntuneful,itslurredthroughtheemptystreets,echoingdismallybackandforth.EveryheadintheCircuswasturningnowleft,nowright,tryingtoplaceitsdirection.
