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- Джон Уиндем
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It
is
my
guess
that
over
the
Pacific
Ocean
,
somewhere
high
up
in
the
stratosphere
,
he
found
himself
attacked
by
Russian
planes
.
It
may
be
that
the
first
he
knew
of
it
was
when
cannon
shells
from
Russian
fighters
started
to
break
up
his
craft
.
Perhaps
Umberto
’
s
plane
exploded
,
perhaps
it
just
fell
to
pieces
.
Whichever
it
was
,
I
am
sure
that
when
the
fragments
began
their
long
,
long
fall
toward
the
sea
they
left
behind
them
something
which
looked
at
first
like
a
white
vapor
.
It
was
not
vapor
.
It
was
a
cloud
of
seeds
,
floating
,
so
infinitely
light
they
were
,
even
in
the
rarefied
air
.
Millions
of
gossamer
-
slung
triffid
seeds
,
free
now
to
drift
wherever
the
winds
of
the
world
should
take
them
.
It
might
be
weeks
,
perhaps
months
,
before
they
would
sink
to
Earth
at
last
,
many
of
them
thousands
of
miles
from
their
starting
place
.
That
is
,
I
repeat
,
conjecture
.
But
I
cannot
see
a
more
probable
way
in
which
that
plant
,
intended
to
be
kept
secret
,
could
come
,
quite
suddenly
,
to
be
found
in
almost
every
part
of
the
world
.
My
introduction
to
a
triffid
came
early
.
It
so
happened
that
we
had
one
of
the
first
in
the
locality
growing
in
our
own
garden
.
The
plant
was
quite
well
developed
before
any
of
us
bothered
to
notice
it
,
for
it
had
taken
root
along
with
a
number
of
other
casuals
behind
the
bit
of
hedge
that
screened
the
rubbish
heap
.
It
wasn
’
t
doing
any
harm
there
,
and
it
wasn
’
t
in
anyone
’
s
way
.
So
when
we
did
notice
it
later
on
,
we
’
d
just
take
a
look
at
it
now
and
then
to
see
how
it
was
getting
along
,
and
let
it
be
.
However
,
a
triffid
is
certainly
distinctive
,
and
we
couldn
’
t
help
getting
a
bit
curious
about
it
after
a
time
.
Not
,
perhaps
,
very
actively
,
for
there
are
always
a
few
unfamiliar
things
that
somehow
or
other
manage
to
lodge
in
the
neglected
corners
of
a
garden
,
but
enough
to
mention
to
one
another
that
it
was
beginning
to
look
a
pretty
queer
sort
of
thing
.
Nowadays
,
when
everyone
knows
only
too
well
what
a
triffid
looks
like
,
it
is
difficult
to
recall
how
odd
and
somehow
foreign
the
first
ones
appeared
to
us
.
Nobody
,
as
far
as
I
know
,
felt
any
misgiving
or
alarm
about
them
then
.
I
imagine
that
most
people
thought
of
them
—
when
they
thought
of
them
at
all
—
in
much
the
same
way
that
my
father
did
.
I
have
a
picture
in
my
memory
now
of
him
examining
ours
and
puzzling
over
it
at
a
time
when
it
must
have
been
about
a
year
old
.
In
almost
every
detail
it
was
a
half
-
size
replica
of
a
fully
grown
triffid
—
only
it
didn
’
t
have
a
name
yet
,
and
no
one
had
seen
one
fully
grown
.
My
father
leaned
over
,
peering
at
it
through
his
horn
-
rimmed
gasses
,
fingering
its
stalk
,
and
blowing
gently
through
his
gingery
mustache
,
as
was
his
habit
when
thoughtful
.
He
inspected
the
straight
stem
,
and
the
woody
bole
from
which
it
sprang
.
He
gave
curious
,
if
not
very
penetrative
,
attention
to
the
three
small
,
bare
sticks
which
grew
straight
up
beside
the
stem
.
He
smoothed
the
short
sprays
of
leathery
green
leaves
between
his
finger
and
thumb
as
if
their
texture
might
tell
him
something
.
Then
he
peered
into
the
curious
,
funnel
-
like
formation
at
the
top
of
the
stem
,
still
puffing
reflectively
,
but
inconclusively
,
through
his
mustache
.
I
remember
the
first
time
he
lifted
me
up
to
look
inside
that
conical
cup
and
see
the
tightly
wrapped
whorl
within
,
It
looked
not
unlike
the
new
,
close
-
rolled
frond
of
a
fern
,
emerging
a
couple
of
inches
from
a
sticky
mess
in
the
base
of
the
cup
.
I
did
not
touch
it
,
but
I
knew
the
stuff
must
be
sticky
because
there
were
flies
and
other
small
insects
struggling
in
it
.
