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- Джон Уиндем
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- Стр. 162/223
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Farms
were
becoming
unpleasant
places
to
pass
closely
.
For
safety
’
s
sake
I
was
giving
myself
only
an
inch
of
ventilation
at
the
top
of
the
window
,
but
I
closed
even
that
whenever
I
saw
a
farm
beside
the
road
ahead
.
Triffids
were
at
large
.
Sometimes
I
saw
them
crossing
fields
or
noticed
them
inactive
against
hedges
.
In
more
than
one
farmyard
they
had
found
the
middens
to
their
liking
and
enthroned
themselves
there
while
they
waited
for
the
dead
stock
to
attain
the
right
stage
of
putrescence
.
I
saw
them
now
with
a
disgust
that
they
had
never
roused
in
me
before
.
Horrible
alien
things
which
some
of
us
had
somehow
created
,
and
which
the
rest
of
us
,
in
our
careless
greed
,
had
cultured
all
over
the
world
.
One
could
not
even
blame
nature
for
them
.
Somehow
they
had
been
bred
—
just
as
we
had
bred
for
ourselves
beautiful
flowers
or
grotesque
parodies
of
dogs
.
.
.
I
began
to
loathe
them
now
on
account
of
more
than
their
carrion
-
eating
habits
—
for
they
,
more
than
anything
else
,
seemed
able
to
profit
and
flourish
on
our
disaster
.
.
.
As
the
day
went
on
,
my
sense
of
loneliness
grew
.
On
any
bill
or
rise
I
stopped
to
examine
the
country
as
far
as
field
glasses
would
show
me
.
Once
I
saw
smoke
and
went
to
the
source
to
find
a
small
railway
train
burned
out
on
the
line
—
I
still
do
not
know
how
that
could
be
,
for
there
was
no
one
near
it
.
Another
time
a
flag
upon
a
staff
sent
me
hurrying
to
a
house
to
find
it
silent
—
though
not
empty
.
Yet
another
time
a
white
flutter
of
movement
on
a
distant
hillside
caught
my
eye
,
but
when
I
turned
the
glasses
on
it
I
found
it
to
be
half
a
dozen
sheep
milling
in
panic
while
a
triffid
struck
continually
and
ineffectively
across
their
woolly
backs
.
Nowhere
could
I
see
a
sign
of
living
human
beings
.
When
I
stopped
for
food
I
did
not
linger
longer
than
I
need
.
I
ate
it
quickly
,
listening
to
a
silence
that
was
beginning
to
get
on
my
nerves
,
and
anxious
to
be
on
my
way
again
with
at
least
the
sound
of
the
car
for
company
.
One
began
to
fancy
things
.
Once
I
saw
an
arm
waving
from
a
window
,
but
when
I
got
there
it
was
only
a
branch
swaying
in
front
of
the
window
.
I
saw
a
man
stop
in
the
middle
of
a
field
and
turn
to
watch
me
go
by
;
but
the
glasses
showed
me
that
he
couldn
’
t
have
stopped
or
turned
:
he
was
a
scarecrow
.
I
heard
voices
calling
to
me
,
just
discernible
above
the
engine
noise
;
I
stopped
,
and
switched
off
.
There
were
no
voices
,
nothing
,
but
far
,
far
away
the
plaint
of
an
unmilked
cow
.
It
came
to
me
that
here
and
there
,
dotted
about
the
country
,
there
must
be
men
and
women
who
were
believing
themselves
to
be
utterly
alone
,
sole
survivors
.
I
felt
as
sorry
for
them
as
for
anyone
else
in
the
disaster
.
During
the
afternoon
,
with
lowered
spirits
and
little
hope
,
I
kept
doggedly
on
,
quartering
my
section
of
the
map
,
because
I
dared
not
risk
failing
to
make
my
inner
certainty
sure
.
At
last
,
however
,
I
satisfied
myself
that
if
any
sizable
party
did
exist
in
the
area
I
had
been
allotted
,
it
was
deliberately
hiding
.
It
had
not
been
possible
for
me
to
cover
every
lane
and
by
-
road
,
but
I
was
willing
to
swear
that
the
sound
of
my
by
no
means
feeble
horn
had
been
heard
in
every
acre
of
my
sector
.
I
finished
up
and
drove
back
to
the
place
where
we
had
parked
the
truck
in
the
gloomiest
mood
I
had
yet
known
.
I
found
that
none
of
the
others
had
shown
up
yet
,
so
to
pass
the
time
,
and
because
I
needed
it
to
keep
out
the
spiritual
cold
,
I
turned
into
the
nearby
pub
and
poured
myself
a
good
brandy
.
