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

“Sure thing, Luther!” BJ waved cheerfully, then raised the camera and aimed. He hesitated. “I forgot
which button, Luther.”

“Shit,” Vandorm snapped. “The one on the right-hand side. Just push it once!”

“Okay.” BJ carefully followed the instructions and the Vandorms heard the click as the shutter snapped.

“Praise the Lord,” Mrs. Vandorm murmured, “he did it. Oh, damn, the baby's wet again. Mike, you stay
here with your father.” Trying to juggle both the infant and the awkward conical hat, she strode away
 Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html




from the blaze toward the line of pickup trucks and station wagons parked nearby, chiding the baby
gently as she walked.

Walter Conroy took back his camera. “Thanks, BJ.” Meanwhile Luther Vandorm was clapping his
older son affectionately on the shoulder. In his sheets and pointed hat, the twelve-year-old looked like an
uncomfortable downsized version of his old man.

“What d'you think of all this, son? Your first cross burning, I mean.”

“I dunno, dad. I mean,” he hastened to correct himself, “it's neat, really neat.”

“Thataboy.” Vandorm looked proud. “Ain't he somethin'?”

“Sure is,” BJ agreed.

Vandorm leaned over to look into his son's face. “And what is it you want to do when you grow up?”

The boy took a deep breath and turned away so he wouldn't have to confront his father's eyes. He
would much rather have been home playing basketball with his friends. You could do that at ten o'clock
at night in Mississippi in June. Even reruns on TV would've been better than this. But his parents had
insisted and he knew better than to argue.

So he recited with as much false enthusiasm as he could muster. “I want to save America by ridding it of
all the kikes, niggers, and wops who've taken control of the government.”

“That's my boy.” Vandorm would have ruffled his son's sandy brown hair except that it would have
knocked off the white hat. There was a dark stain down the front of his own sheet where he'd spilled the
Coke float they'd bought at the Dairy Queen. His wife hadn't let up on him about that until they'd reached
the site.

As Mike Vandorm was gazing at the fire a mischievous grin spread over his face. “It would've been
better if we could've brought some hot dogs and marshmallows.”

Vandorm gripped the boy's shoulder hard. “Now listen, son, this is serious business your daddy's
involved in here. Ain't nuthin’ to joke about. I don't ever want to hear you say anything like that again,