Mists of Dawn (8 page)

And
now,
at
last,
he
was
ready.

Mark
Nye
had
seen
Italy
many
times,
on
trips
abroad with
his
uncle.
He
had
seen
Rome
and
had
journeyed across
the
sea
to
North
Africa
where
the
genius
Hannibal
had
threatened
the
Roman
rule.
He
had
traveled in
France
and
Germany,
where
he
had
seen
the
sites of
ancient
man—which
had
fascinated
him,
just
as
the aboriginal
lore
of
the
Indians
of
the
United
States
had always
fascinated
both
Mark
and
his
uncle.
He
had studied
the
past,
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.”