"Ballard, J G - Cloud Scultors" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ballard J G)

shards fell towards us like crumbling ice-drifts. As the drops
of condensing spray fell on my face, I could see Van Eyck
shaping an immense horse's head. He sailed up and down the
long forehead and chiselled out the eyes and ears.
As always, the people watching from their cars seemed to
enjoy this piece of aerial marzipan. It sailed overhead, carried
away on the wind from Coral D. Van Eyck followed it
down, wings lazing around the equine head. Meanwhile
Petit Manuel worked away at the next cloud. As he sprayed
its sides, a familiar human head appeared through the tum-
bling mist. Manuel caricatured the high wavy mane, strong
jaw but slipped mouth from the cloud with a series of deft
passes, wing-tips almost touching each other as he dived in
and out of the portrait.
The glossy white head, an. unmistakable parody of Van
Eyck in his own worst style, crossed the highway towards
Vermilion Sands. Manuel slid out of the air, stalling his
glider to a landing beside my car as Van Eyck stepped from
his cockpit with a forced smile.
We waited for the third display. A cloud formed over
Coral D, within a few minutes had blossomed into a pristine
fair-weather cumulus. As it hung there Nolan's black-winged
glider plunged out of the sun. He soared around .the cloud,
cutting away its tissues. The soft fleece fell towards us in a
cool rain.
There was a shout from one of the cars. Nolan turned
from the cloud, his wings slipping as if unveiling his handi-
work. Illuminated by the afternoon sun was the serene face
of a three-year-old child. Its wide cheeks framed a placid
mouth and plump chin. As one or two people clapped,
Nolan sailed over the cloud and rippled the roof into ribbons
and curls.
However, I knew that the real climax was yet to come.
Cursed by some malignant virus, Nolan seemed unable to
accept his own handiwork, always destroying it with the same
cold humour. Petit Manuel had thrown away his cigarette,
and even Van Eyck had turned his attention from the women
in the cars.
Nolan soared above the child's face, following like a
matador waiting for the moment of the kill. There was
silence for a minute as he worked away at the cloud, and
then someone slammed a car door in disgust.
Hanging above us was the white image of a skull.
The child's face, converted by a few strokes, had vanished,
but in the notched teeth and gaping orbits, large enough
to hold a car, we could still see an echo of its infant
features. The spectre moved past us, the spectators frowning
at this weeping skull whose rain fell upon their faces.
Half-heartedly I picked my old flying helmet off the
back seat and began to carry it around the cars. Two of the