"Kim Stanley Robinson - Forty Signs of Rain" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Kim Stanley)

“No, but—wait—Joe?”
 Charlie didn’t see Joe anywhere. He ducked to be able to see under the climbing structure to the other
side. No Joe.

“Hey Roy let me call you back okay? I gotta find Joe he’s wandered off.”

“Okay, give me a buzz.”

Charlie clicked off and yanked the earplug out of his ear, jammed it in his pocket.

“JOE!”

He looked around at the West Indian nannies—none of them were watching, none of them would meet
his eye. No help there. He jogged south to be able to see farther around the back of the fire station. Ah
ha! There was Joe, trundling full speed for Wisconsin Avenue.

“JOE! STOP!”

That was as loud as Charlie could shout. He saw that Joe had indeed heard him, and had redoubled the
speed of his diaper-waddle toward the busy street.

Charlie took off in a sprint after him. “JOE!” he shouted as he pelted over the grass. “STOP! JOE!
STOP RIGHT THERE!” He didn’t believe that Joe would stop, but possibly he would try to go even
faster, and fall.

No such luck. Joe was in stride now, running like a duck trying to escape something without taking flight.
He was on the sidewalk next to the fire station, and had a clear shot at Wisconsin, where trucks and cars
zipped by as always.

Charlie closed in, cleared the fire station, saw big trucks bearing down. By the time he caught up to Joe
he was so close to the edge that Charlie had to grab him by the back of his shirt and lift him off his feet,
whirling him around in a broad circle through the air, back onto Charlie as they both fell in a heap on the
sidewalk.

“Ow!” Joe howled.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING!” Charlie shouted in his face. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? DON’T
EVER DO THAT AGAIN!”

Joe, amazed, stopped howling for a moment. He stared at his father, face crimson. Then he
recommenced howling.

Charlie shifted into a cross-legged position, hefted the crying boy into his lap. He was shaking, his heart
was pounding; he could feel it tripping away madly in his hands and chest. In an old reflex he put his
thumb to the other wrist and watched the seconds pass on his watch for fifteen seconds. Multiply by four.
Impossible. One hundred and eighty beats a minute. Surely that was impossible. Sweat was pouring out
of all his skin at once. He was gasping.

The parade of trucks and cars continued to roar by, inches away. Wisconsin Avenue was a major truck
route from the Beltway into the city. Most of the trucks entirely filled the right lane, from curb to lane line;