第68部分（第1页）

with　tuneless　monotony　on　the　Buicks　big　wheels。

The　turnpike　was　a　mess。　Even　with　the　chains　he　could　go　no　faster　than

thirty。　Cars　had　gone　off　the　road　at　crazy　angles；　and　on　several　of　the　grades

traffic　was　barely　struggling　along；　summer　tires　spinning　helplessly　in　the

drifting　powder。　It　was　the　first　big　storm　of　the　winter　down　here　in　the

lowlands　（if　you　could　call　a　mile　above　sealevel　〃low〃）；　and　it　was　a　mother。

Many　of　them　were　unprepared；　mon　enough；　but　Hallorann　still　found　himself

cursing　them　as　he　inched　around　them；　peering　into　his　snow…clogged　outside

mirror　to　be　sure　nothing　was

（Dashing　through　the　snow　。。。）

ing　up　in　the　left…hand　lane　to　cream　his　black　ass。

There　was　more　bad　luck　waiting　for　him　at　the　Route　36　entrance　ramp。　Route

36；　the　Denver…Boulder　turnpike；　also　goes　west　to　Estes　Park；　where　it　connects

with　Route　7。　That　road；　also　known　as　the　Upland　Highway；　goes　through

Sidewinder；　passes　the　Overlook　Hotel；　and　finally　winds　down　the　Western　Slope

and　into　Utah。

The　entrance　ramp　had　been　blocked　by　an　overturned　semi。　Bright…burning

flares　had　been　scattered　around　it　like　birthday　candles　on　some　idiot　childs

cake。

He　came　to　a　stop　and　rolled　his　window　down。　A　cop　with　a　fur　Cossack　hat

jammed　down　over　his　ears　gestured　with　one　gloved　hand　toward　the　flow　of

traffic　moving　north　on　I…25。

〃You　cant　get　up　here！〃　he　bawled　to　Hallorann　over　the　wind。　〃Go　down　two

exits；　get　on　91；　and　connect　with　36　at　Broomfield！〃

〃I　think　I　could　get　around　him　on　the　left！〃　Hallorann　shouted　back。　〃Thats

twenty　miles　out　of　my　way；　what　youre　rappin！〃

〃Ill　rap　your　friggin　head！〃　the　cop　shouted　back。　〃This　ramps　closed！〃

Hallorann　backed　up；　waited　for　a　break　in　traffic；　and　continued　on　his　way

up　Route　25。　The　signs　informed　him　it　was　only　a　hundred　miles　to　Cheyenne；

Wyoming。　If　he　didnt　look　out　for　his　ramp；　hed　wind　up　there。

He　inched　his　speed　up　to　thirty…five　but　dared　no　more；　already　snow　was

threatening　to　clog　his　wiper　blades　and　the　traffic　patterns　were　decidedly

crazy。　Twenty…mile　detour。　He　cursed；　and　the　feeling　that　time　was　growing

shorter　for　the　boy　welled　up　in　him　again；　nearly　suffocating　with　its　urgency。