Рэй Брэдбери: The Wind

«You haven't bothered anyone, damn it. Call me back.»

«I'll try….»

Herb Thompson went back to the card game. His wife glared at him. «How's Allin, your friend?» she asked, «Is he sober?»

«He's never taken a drink in his life,» said Thompson, sullenly, sitting down. «I should have gone out there hours ago.»

«But he's called every night for six weeks and you've been out there at least ten nights to stay with him and nothing was wrong.»

«He needs help. He might hurt himself.»

«You were just out there, two nights ago, you can't always be running after him.»

«First thing in the morning I'll move him into a sanatorium. Didn't want to. He seems so reasonable otherwise.»

At ten-thirty coffee was served. Herb Thompson drank his slowly, looking at the phone. I wonder if he's in the cellar now, he thought.

Herb Thompson walked to the phone, called long-distance, gave the number.

«I'm sorry,» said the operator. «The lines are down in that district. When the lines are repaired, we will put your call through.»

«Then the telephone lines _are_ down!» cried Thompson. He let the phone drop. Turning, he slammed open the closet door, pulled out his coat. «Oh Lord,» he said. «Oh, Lord, Lord,» he said, to his amazed guests and his wife with the coffee urn in her hand. «Herb!» she cried. «I've got to get out there!» he said, slipping into his coat.

There was a soft, faint stirring at the door.

Everybody in the room tensed and straightened up.

«Who could that be?» asked his wife.

The soft stirring was repeated, very quietly.

Thompson hurried down the hall where he stopped, alert.

Outside, faintly, he heard laughter.

«I'll be damned,» said Thompson. He put his hand on the doorknob, pleasantly shocked and relieved. «I'd know that laugh anywhere. It's Allin. He came on over in his car, after all. Couldn't wait until morning to tell me his confounded stories.» Thompson smiled weakly. «Probably brought some friends with him. Sounds like a lot of other…»

He opened the front door.

The porch was empty.

Thompson showed no surprise; his face grew amused and sly. He laughed. «Allin? None of your tricks now! Come on.» He switched on the porch-light and peered out and around. «Where are you, Allin? Come on, now.»

A breeze blew into his face.

Thompson waited a moment, suddenly chilled to his marrow. He stepped out on the porch and looked uneasily, and very carefully, about.

A sudden wind caught and whipped his coat flaps, disheveled his hair. He thought he heard laughter again. The wind rounded the house and was a pressure everywhere at once, and then, storming for a full minute, passed on.

The wind died down, sad, mourning in the high trees, passing away; going back out to the sea, to the Celebes, to the Ivory Coast, to Sumatra and Cape Horn, to Cornwall and the Philippines. Fading, fading, fading.

Thompson stood there, cold. He went in and closed the door and leaned against it, and didn't move, eyes closed.

«What's wrong…?» asked his wife.