Mists of Dawn Read Free Page B

and listened to Doctor Nye spin long and glorious tales about the past, and had even prepared himself to be able to accompany his uncle if his dream should ever come true—but now, actually to go . . .
    The yellow outdoor light from Doctor Nye’s lodge loomed up before them as they hurried up the drive. The storm was very close now, and they seemed to be walking along in the middle of a suspended island of nothingness, of electric suspense, where the rain could not reach them. Fang galloped ahead joyfully and camped by the front door, wagging the stump of his tail impatiently. Doctor Nye paused on the doorstep and squinted up into the darkness and the sighing of the pines.
    “Looks like this will be some real weather, Mark.” “Anything wrong?” asked Mark. “We have a lot of storms up here, and this doesn’t look much worse than any of the others. It’ll probably be over in an hour or so.”
    “Oh, I’m not worried about us,” Doctor Nye said, tapping out the ashes in his pipe against his boots. “The house isn’t likely to blow away or anything. I was just thinking—it’s seven-thirty now, and with that storm all around us . . .”
    “What’s going on tonight? Something at White Sands?”
    Doctor Nye nodded and scratched the impatient Fang’s ears. “They were scheduled to test a new rocket tonight,” he explained. “One of the Toney experimental jobs with a small atomic warhead. According to Jim Walls—you remember Jim, in charge of the rocket shoots—the rocket is supposed to go almost straight up, describe a short arc, and come down on a target a few miles away. But if it’s storming like this in White Sands—”
    “They’ll probably call it off, if there aren’t too many generals around,” suggested Mark. “You wouldn’t mind that too much, would you, Uncle Bob?”
    Doctor Nye smiled. “You read my mind like a book, son,” he said. “I’m due to fly my ‘copter over there tomorrow to help Garvin make the radioactivity check, but if they call the shoot off we can work on our plans in the morning, and then maybe sneak off in the afternoon and see if we can’t find some trout around here that aren’t too smart for us.”
    Mark Nye brightened visibly at the prospect. “There are some swell places on the reservation,” he said. “I snagged some beauties there last time, and the Indians invited me to come back and try it again.”
    “We’ll keep it in mind,” Doctor Nye agreed. “But first …”
    “But first, open the door!” shouted Mark. “Here she comes!”
    There was a sudden hush as the world seemed to pull its defenses together to ward off a mighty blow. Then a livid flash of lightning split the tops of the shuddering pines and a blast of thunder slammed into the earth like a monstrous fist of iron. A clean, fresh, wet smell blew up from the valley below and the first big, heavy drops of rain pattered like lead pellets on the roof of the lodge.
    Doctor Nye threw open the door and they hurried inside, with Fang well in the lead and barking excitedly. Mark shut the door behind them and switched on the inside lights. The storm hit with full fury then, with the wind shaking the lodge and the rain pounding down in torrents on the roof.
    “I’m just as glad we’re not fishing now,” Doctor Nye said. “You wouldn’t be able to tell the fishermen from the fish.”
    Mark grinned. “I remember the last time we got caught out in a storm like this—I got so wet I didn’t have to drink anything for a month.”
    The sitting room of Doctor Nye’s lodge was neat and comfortable, with long shelves full of books, a bust of Caesar by the lamp on the table, Navajo rugs on the floor, and walls of lightly varnished pine. For a few minutes they were content just to sit there and listen to the storm raging outside. Fang had already found his favorite spot in the best armchair in the room and had gone to sleep.
    “Well, who fixes supper tonight?” asked Doctor Nye.
    “I will,” Mark