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- Джон Уиндем
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- День триффидов
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I
don
’
t
think
anybody
really
understands
triffids
,
or
ever
will
,
but
Walter
came
nearer
to
beginning
to
understand
them
than
any
man
I
have
known
.
Or
should
I
say
that
he
was
given
to
intuitive
feelings
about
them
?
It
was
a
year
or
two
after
the
job
had
begun
that
he
first
surprised
me
.
The
sun
was
close
to
setting
.
We
had
knocked
off
for
the
day
and
were
looking
with
a
sense
of
satisfaction
at
three
new
fields
of
nearly
fully
grown
triffids
.
In
those
days
we
didn
’
t
simply
corral
them
as
we
did
later
.
They
were
arranged
across
the
fields
roughly
in
rows
—
at
least
the
steel
stakes
to
which
each
was
tethered
by
a
chain
were
in
rows
,
though
the
plants
themselves
had
no
sense
of
tidy
regimentation
.
We
reckoned
that
in
another
month
or
so
we
’
d
be
able
to
start
tapping
them
for
juice
.
The
evening
was
peaceful
;
almost
the
only
sounds
that
broke
it
were
the
occasional
rattlings
of
the
triffids
’
little
sticks
against
their
stems
.
Walter
regarded
them
with
his
head
slightly
on
one
side
.
He
removed
his
pipe
.
"
They
’
re
talkative
tonight
,
"
he
observed
.
I
took
that
as
anyone
else
would
,
metaphorically
.
"
Maybe
it
’
s
the
weather
,
"
I
suggested
"
I
fancy
they
do
it
more
when
it
’
s
dry
.
"
He
looked
sidelong
at
me
,
with
a
smile
.
"
Do
you
talk
more
when
it
’
s
dry
?
"
"
Why
should
—
"
I
began
,
and
then
broke
off
.
"
You
don
’
t
really
mean
you
think
they
’
re
talking
?
"
I
said
,
noticing
his
expression
.
"
Well
,
why
not
?
"
