"Stephen Goldin - Herds" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goldin Stephen)

had been spread around the structure's perimeter. The gravel
extended for about ten yards, then gave way to loose dry dirt
atop hard rock until it entered the trees another six yards further
on.

There was a narrow dirt road that led up from the highway to
the cabin. It did not come straight up, but wound snake-like
among the trees until it reached the clearing. A pair of
headlights could currently be seen weaving along that road,
alternately vanishing and reappearing as the car rounded
various curves or passed behind groups of cypress trees.
 Stella Stoneham stood in the darkness, watching those •

headlights approach. Her internal organs were trying valiantly
to tie themselves into knots as the lights came nearer. She took a
final long drag on her cigarette and ground it out nervously
beneath her foot in the gravel. If there were any person she didn't
want to see right now it was her husband, but it looked as
though the choice was not hers to make. She frowned and looked
up into the sky. The night was fairly clear, with only a few small
patches of cloud obscuring the stars. She looked back down at
the headlights. He would be here in a minute. Sighing, she went
back inside the cabin.

The interior normally cheered her with its brightness and
warmth, but tonight there was an ironic quality about it that
only deepened her depression. The room was large and
uncrowded, giving the illusion of space and freedom that Stella
had wanted. There was a long brown sofa along one wall, with a
small reading table and lamp beside it. In the next corner, going
clockwise, there was a sink and a small stove; a supply cupboard
hung on the wall near them, elaborately carved out of hardwood,
with scrollwork and little red gn6mes in the corner holding it up.
Also on the wall was a rack of assorted kitchen utensils, still
shiny from lack of use. Continuing around the room there was a
small white dinette set standing neatly in the third corner. The
door to the back bedroom and bathroom stood half ajar, with
light from the main room penetrating only slightly into the
darkness beyond the threshold. Finally there was a writing desk
with a typewriter and telephone and an old folding chair beside
if in the corner nearest the door. The center of the room was
bare except for a frayed brown carpet that covered the wooden
floor. The place was not much to cling to,

Stella knew, but if a fight were going to take place at all—as it
now appeared it would—it would be better to handle it on her
own territory.

She sat down on the sofa and stood up again immediately.
She paced the length of the room, wondering what she would do