"Zelazny, Roger - Damnation Alley" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zelazny Roger)

And then the radio crackled, and the muffled voice of the man called Marlowe came through: "Giant dust devils," he said. "Big, rotary sandstorms. I think they're sucking stuff up into the dead belt, because I don't see anything coming down..."
"You ever see one before?"
"No, but my partner says he did. He says the best thing might be to shoot our anchoring columns and stay put."
Tanner did not answer immediately. He stared ahead, and the tornadoes seemed to grow larger.
"They're coming this way," he finally said. "I'm not about to park here and be a target. I want to be able to maneuver. I'm going ahead through them."
"I don't think you should."
"Nobody asked you, mister, but if you've got any brains, you'll do the same thing."
"I've got rockets aimed at your tail, Hell."
"You won't fire them, not for a thing like this, where I could be right and you could be wrong, and not with Greg in here, too."
There was silence within the static, then, "Okay, you win, Hell. Go ahead, and we'll watch. If you make it, we'll follow. If you don't, we'll stay put."
"I'll shoot a flare when I get to the other side," Tanner said. "When you see it, you do the same. Okay?"
"Okay."
Tanner broke the connection and looked ahead, studying the great black columns, swollen at their tops. There fell a few layers of light from the storm which they supported, and the air was foggy between the blackness of their revolving trunks. "Here goes," said Tanner, switching his lights as bright as they would beam. "Strap yourself in, boy," and Greg obeyed him as the vehicle crunched forward.
Tanner buckled his own safety belts as they slowly edged ahead.
The columns grew and swayed as he advanced, and he could now hear a rushing, singing sound, as of a chorus of the winds.
He skirted the first by three hundred yards and continued to the left to avoid the one which stood before him and grew and grew. As he got by it, there was another, and he moved farther to the left. Then there was an open sea of perhaps a quarter of a mile leading ahead and toward his right. He sped across it and passed between two of the towers that stood like ebony pillars a hundred yards apart. As he passed them, the wheel was almost torn from his grip and he seemed to inhabit the center of an eternal thunderclap. He swerved to the right then and skirted another, speeding.
Then he saw seven more and cut between two and passed about another. As he did, the one behind him moved in terrible spurts of speed. One passed before him, exhaled heavily and turned to the left.
He was surrounded by the final four, and he braked, so that he was thrown forward and the straps cut into his shoulder, as two of the whirlwinds shook violently. One passed before him, and the front end of his car was raised from off the ground.
Then he floored the gas pedal and shot between the final two, and they were all behind him.
He continued on for about a quarter of a mile, turned the car about, mounted a small rise, and parked.
He released the flare.
It hovered, like a dying star, for about half a minute.
He lit a cigarette as he stared back, and he waited.
He finished the cigarette.
Then, "Nothing," he said. "Maybe they couldn't spot it through the storm. Or maybe we couldn't see theirs."
"I hope so," said Greg.
"How long do you want to wait?"
"Let's have that coffee."

An hour passed, then two. The pillars began to collapse, until there were only three of the slimmer ones. They moved off toward the east and were gone from sight.
Tanner released another flare, and still there was no response.
"We'd better go back and look for them," said Greg.
"Okay."
And they did.
There was nothing there, though, nothing to indicate the fate of car three.
Dawn occurred in the east before they had finished with their searching, and Tanner turned the car around, checked the compass, and moved north.
"When do you think we'll hit Salt Lake?" Greg asked him, after a long silence.
"Maybe two hours."
"Were you scared, back when you ran those things?"
"No. Afterward, though, I didn't feel so good."
Greg nodded.
"You want me to drive again?"
"No. I won't be able to sleep if I stop now. We'll take in more gas in Salt Lake, and we can get something to eat while a mechanic checks over the car. Then I'll put us on the right road, and you can take over while I sack out."
The sky was purple again, and the black bands had widened. Tanner cursed and drove faster. He fired his ventral flame at two bats who decided to survey the car. They fell back, and he accepted the mug of coffee Greg offered him.

The sky was as dark as evening when they pulled into Salt Lake City. John Brady, that was his name, had passed that way but days before, and the city was ready for the responding vehicle. Most of its ten thousand inhabitants appeared along the street, and before Hell and Greg had jumped down from the cab after pulling into the first garage they saw, the hood of car number two was opened and three mechanics were peering at the engine.
One of the mechanics approached them. He was short and stained dark with sun and grease, so that his eyes appeared even paler than they were. He regarded the black-framed nails of the hand he had begun to extend, then jerked it back and wiped it on his green coveralls, grinning as he did so and revealing a row of gold-capped teeth.
"Hi. I'm Monk," he said. "You're the ones bound for Boston, huh?"
"Yeah."
"I'll have my boys go over everything. Probably take a couple hours. What're your names?"