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手机浏览器扫描二维码访问

第52部分（第1页）

The　mallet　expressed　that　perfectly。　A　soft　end　and　a　hard　end。　A　game　of

finesse　and　aim；　and　a　game　of　raw；　bludgeoning　power。

He　swung　the　mallet　through　the　air　。。。　whhhoooop。　He　smiled　a　little　at　the

powerful；　whistling　sound　it　made。　Then　he　replaced　it　in　the　rack　and　turned　to

his　left。　What　he　saw　there　made　him　frown　again。

The　snowmobile　sat　almost　in　the　middle　of　the　equipment　shed；　a　fairly　new

one；　and　Jack　didnt　care　for　its　looks　at　all。　Bombardier　Skidoo　was　written　on

the　side　of　the　engine　cowling　facing　him　in　black　letters　which　had　been　raked

backward；　presumably　to　connote　speed。　The　protruding　skis　were　also　black。

There　was　black　piping　to　the　right　and　left　of　the　cowling；　what　they　would

call　racing　stripes　on　a　sports　car。　But　the　actual　paintjob　was　a　bright；

sneering　yellow；　and　that　was　what　he　didnt　like　about　it。　Sitting　there　in　its

shaft　of　morning　sun；　yellow　body　and　black　piping；　black　skis　and　black

upholstered　open　cockpit；　it　looked　like　a　monstrous　mechanized　wasp。　When　it

was　running　it　would　sound　like　that　too。　Whining　and　buzzing　and　ready　to

sting。　But　then；　what　else　should　it　look　like？　It　wasnt　flying　under　false

colors；　at　least。　Because　after　it　had　done　its　job；　they　were　going　to　be

hurting　plenty。　All　of　them。　By　spring　the　Torrance　family　would　be　hurting　so

badly　that　what　those　wasps　had　done　to　Dannys　hand　would　look　like　a　mothers

kisses。

He　pulled　his　handkerchief　from　his　back　pocket；　wiped　his　mouth　with　it；　and

walked　over　to　the　Skidoo。　He　stood　looking　down　at　it；　the　frown　very　deep　now；

and　stuffed　his　handkerchief　back　into　his　pocket。　Outside　a　sudden　gust　of　wind

slammed　against　the　equipment　shed；　making　it　rock　and　creak。　He　looked　out　the

window　and　saw　the　gust　carrying　a　sheet　of　sparkling　snow　crystals　toward　the

drifted…in　rear　of　the　hotel；　whirling　them　high　into　the　hard　blue　sky。

The　wind　dropped　and　he　went　back　to　looking　at　the　machine。　It　was　a

disgusting　thing；　really。　You　almost　expected　to　see　a　long；　limber　stinger

protruding　from　the　rear　of　it。　He　had　always　disliked　the　goddam　snowmobiles。

They　shivered　the　cathedral　silence　of　winter　into　a　million　rattling　fragments。

They　startled　the　wildlife。　They　sent　out　huge　and　pollutive　clouds　of　blue　and

billowing　oilsmoke　behind　them　—　cough；　cough；　gag；　gag；　let　me　breathe。　They

were　perhaps　the　final　grotesque　toy　of　the　unwinding　fossil　fuel　age；　given　to

ten…year…olds　for　Christmas。

He　remembered　a　newspaper　article　he　had　read　in　Stovington；　a　story　datelined

someplace　in　Maine。　A　kid　on　a　snowmobile；　barrel…assing　up　a　road　hed　never

traveled　before　at　better　than　thirty　miles　an　hour。　Night。　His　headlight　off。

There　had　been　a　heavy　chain　strung　between　two　posts　with　a　NO　TRESPASSING　sign

hung　from　the　middle。　They　said　that　in　all　probability　the　kid　never　saw　it。

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