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- Рэй Брэдбери
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- Марсианские хроники
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- Стр. 1/287
The Martian Chronicles
One
minute
it
was
Ohio
winter
,
with
doors
closed
,
windows
locked
,
the
panes
blind
with
frost
,
icicles
fringing
every
roof
,
children
skiing
on
slopes
,
housewives
lumbering
like
great
black
bears
in
their
furs
along
the
icy
streets
.
And
then
a
long
wave
of
warmth
crossed
the
small
town
.
A
flooding
sea
of
hot
air
;
it
seemed
as
if
someone
had
left
a
bakery
door
open
.
The
heat
pulsed
among
the
cottages
and
bushes
and
children
.
The
icicles
dropped
,
shattering
,
to
melt
.
The
doors
flew
open
.
The
windows
flew
up
.
The
children
worked
off
their
wool
clothes
.
The
housewives
shed
their
bear
disguises
.
The
snow
dissolved
and
showed
last
summer
’
s
ancient
green
lawns
.
Rocket
summer
.
The
words
passed
among
the
people
in
the
open
,
airing
houses
.
Rocket
summer
.
The
warm
desert
air
changing
the
frost
patterns
on
the
windows
,
erasing
the
art
work
.
The
skis
and
sleds
suddenly
useless
.
The
snow
,
falling
from
the
cold
sky
upon
the
town
,
turned
to
a
hot
rain
before
it
touched
the
ground
.
Rocket
summer
.
People
leaned
from
their
dripping
porches
and
watched
the
reddening
sky
.
The
rocket
lay
on
the
launching
field
,
blowing
out
pink
clouds
of
fire
and
oven
heat
.
The
rocket
stood
in
the
cold
wintar
morning
,
making
summer
with
every
breath
of
its
mighty
exhausts
.
The
rocket
made
climates
,
and
summer
lay
for
a
brief
moment
upon
the
land
…
They
had
a
house
of
crystal
pillars
on
the
planet
Mars
by
the
edge
of
an
empty
sea
,
and
every
morning
you
could
see
Mrs
.
K
eating
the
golden
fruits
that
grew
from
the
crystal
walls
,
or
cleaning
the
house
with
handfuls
of
magnetic
dust
which
,
taking
all
dirt
with
it
,
blew
away
on
the
hot
wind
.
Afternoons
,
when
the
fossil
sea
was
warm
and
motionless
,
and
the
wine
trees
stood
stiff
in
the
yard
,
and
the
little
distant
Martian
bone
town
was
all
enclosed
,
and
no
one
drifted
out
their
doors
,
you
could
see
Mr
.
K
himself
in
his
room
,
reading
from
a
metal
book
with
raised
hieroglyphs
over
which
he
brushed
his
hand
,
as
one
might
play
a
harp
.
And
from
the
book
,
as
his
fingers
stroked
,
a
voice
sang
,
a
soft
ancient
voice
,
which
told
tales
of
when
the
sea
was
red
steam
on
the
shore
and
ancient
men
had
carried
clouds
of
metal
insects
and
electric
spiders
into
battle
.
Mr
.
and
Mrs
.
K
had
lived
by
the
dead
sea
for
twenty
years
,
and
their
ancestors
had
lived
in
the
same
house
,
which
turned
and
followed
the
sun
,
flower
-
like
,
for
ten
centuries
.
Mr
.
and
Mrs
.
K
were
not
old
.
They
had
the
fair
,
brownish
skin
of
the
true
Martian
,
the
yellow
coin
eyes
,
the
soft
musical
voices
.
Once
they
had
liked
painting
pictures
with
chemical
fire
,
swimming
in
the
canals
in
the
seasons
when
the
wine
trees
filled
them
with
green
liquors
,
and
talking
into
the
dawn
together
by
the
blue
phosphorous
portraits
in
the
speaking
room
.
They
were
not
happy
now
.
This
morning
Mrs
.
K
stood
between
the
pillars
,
listening
to
the
desert
sands
heat
,
melt
into
yellow
wax
,
and
seemingly
run
on
the
horizon
.
