"Alan Dean Foster - Into the Out Of" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

conical white hat that perched uneasily atop his head. Finding what he'd been digging for, he handed the
compact 35mm camera to the other man.

“Get a shot of Luther and me, will you?” He showed his friend the camera, knowing that he had to keep
 Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html




any explanations simple. “See, it's one of those new Jap all-automatic jobbies.” He flipped a switch, the
camera beeped once, and a small built-in flash popped up. “Just wait till the little red light comes on in the
viewfinder. That means the flash is powered up and all set to go.”

The other man eyed the camera uncertainly. “I dunno, Walter. I dunno anything much about cameras.”

Conroy tried not to sound too exasperated. “I told you.” He spoke slowly, forming the words carefully
and leaving BJ time to catch up. Everyone knew BJ was a little slow, but he was willing enough to help
with anything and was much stronger than he looked. “Here—it's set now. Just point the lens at Luther
and me and press this here button and the camera will do the rest. Just make sure you can see both of us
through the viewfinder, okay?”

“Well, okay.” BJ accepted the camera with obvious reluctance. He was solidly built, deceptively
muscular, with an undistinguished face and a hairline that was beginning to recede. Currently he wore the
expression of a tenth-grader trying to cope with a Cray computer.

“Hold on just a minute,” Walter urged him as he ran to stand next to his buddy. “Wait till I give the
word.” Then he was standing next to Vandorm, who managed to cram his wife and kids into the picture
as well. Conroy put his arm around his companion's skinny shoulders and they all forced smiles into the
camera.

They were not alone. Plenty of their friends were standing in a circle behind them, hooting and hollering
as the huge burning cross threw glowing embers up into the night sky. Some of them were laughing a little
too much. A definite boundary had been created around the cross. It was composed of discarded beer
cans and shredded cigarettes.

BJ squinted into the flames, listening to the crackle of the burning cross, and waited until Vandorm pulled
his wife close to him. She was holding Vandorm Junior in her arms. He wore a miniature white sheet
outfit she'd sewed for him herself. Twelve-year-old Mike stood restlessly in front of his mom and dad.
He looked like he wished he were somewhere else.

They stood grinning back at BJ until the corners of their mouths began to cramp. Finally Vandorm's wife
whispered to her husband. “If you don't tell that idiot to shoot we're going to have our rear ends toasted.
I can't hang around here all night, Luther. The clothes in the washer are going to start to mildew if I don't
get ’em in the dryer pretty soon.”

“Hush up, woman. He'll hear you.”

A short, sharp laugh. “So what? He don't understand a tenth of what he do hear.”

“Don't be afraid of it,” Vandorm told BJ. “Just look through the little window and push the button.”