День триффидов
Shadows Before
Wewentbacktotheouterdoor,andintothegardenoncemore.Keepingtothegrassforsilence,wemadeourwayroundthehouseuntilwecouldlookintotheloungehail.TheFrenchwindowwhichledfromthegardenwasopen,andtheglassofonesidewasshattered.Atrailofmuddyblobsledoverthestepandacrossthecarpet.Attheendofitatriffidstoodinthemiddleoftheroom.Thetopofitsstemalmostbushedtheceiling,anditwasswayingeversoslightly.Closebesideitsdamp,shaggybolelaythebodyofanelderlymancladinabrightsilkdressinggown.ItookholdofJosella’sarm,afraidshemightrushinthere.
"Isit—yourfather?"Iasked,thoughIknewitmustbe."Yes,"shesaid,andputherhandsoverherface.Shewastremblingalittle.
Istoodstill,keepinganeyeonthetriffidinsidelestitshouldmoveourway.ThenIthoughtofahandkerchiefandhandedhermine.Therewasn’tmuchanyonecoulddo.Afteralittlewhileshetookmorecontrolofherself.Rememberingthepeoplewehadseenthatday,Isaid:
"Youknow,IthinkIwouldratherthathadhappenedtomethantobelikethoseothers."
"Yes,"shesaid,afterapause.
Shelookedupintothesky.Itwasasoft,depthlessblue,withafewlittlecloudsfloatinglikewhitefeathers.
"Ohyes,"sherepeatedwithmoreconviction."PoorDaddy.Hecouldn’thavestoodblindness.Helovedallthistoomuch."Sheglancedinsidetheroomagain."Whatshallwedo?Ican’tleave—"
AtthatmomentIcaughtthereflectionofmovementintheremainingwindowpane.
