Марсианские хроники
June 2003: Way in the Middle of the Air
Itsurgedslow,slow,anditwasmenandwomenandhorsesandbarkingdogs,anditwaslittleboysandgirls.Andfromthemouthsofthepeoplepartakingofthistidecamethesoundofariver.Asummer-dayrivergoingsomewhere,murmuringandirrevocable.Andinthatslow,steadychannelofdarknessthatcutacrossthewhiteglareofdayweretouchesofalertwhite,theeyes,theivoryeyesstaringahead,glancingaside,astheriver,thelongandendlessriver,tookitselffromoldchannelsintoanewone.Fromvariousanduncountabletributaries,increeksandbrooksofcolorandmotion,thepartsofthisriverhadjoined,becomeonemothercurrent,andflowedon.Andbrimmingtheswellwerethingscarriedbytheriver:grandfatherclockschiming,kitchenclocksticking,cagedhensscreaming,babieswailing;andswimmingamongthethickenededdiesweremulesandcats,andsuddenexcursionsofburstmattressspringsfloatingby,insanehairstuffingstickingout,andboxesandcratesandpicturesofdarkgrandfathersinoakframes—theriverflowingitonwhilethemensatlikenervoushoundsonthehardwareporch,toolatetomendthelevee,theirhandsempty.
SamuelTeecewouldn’tbelieveit."Why,hell,where’dtheygetthetransportation?Howtheygoin’togettoMars?"
"Rockets,"saidGrandpaQuartermain.
"Allthedamn-foolthings.Where’dtheygetrockets?"
"Savedtheirmoneyandbuiltthem."
"Ineverheardaboutit."
"Seemstheseniggerskeptitsecret,workedontherocketsallthemselves,don’tknowwhere—inAfrica,maybe."
