Марсианские хроники

           Hereandthereafire,forgotteninthelastrush,lingeredandinasuddenaccessofstrengthfeduponthedrybonesofsomelitteredshack.Thesoundofagentlefeedingburnwentupthroughthesilencedair.

           Themensatonthehardwareporch,notblinkingorswallowing.

           "Ican’tfigurewhytheyleftnow.Withthingslookin’up.Imean,everydaytheygotmorerights.Whattheywant,anyway?Here’sthepolltaxgone,andmoreandmorestatespassin’anti-lynchin’bills,andallkindsofequalrights.Whatmoretheywant?Theymakealmostasgoodmoneyasawhiteman,buttheretheygo."

           Fardowntheemptystreetabicyclecame.

           "I’llbegoddamned.Teece,herecomesyourSillynow."

           Thebicyclepulledupbeforetheporch,aseventeen-year-oldcoloredboyonit,allarmsandfeetandlonglegsandroundwatermelonhead.HelookedupatSamuelTeeceandsmiled.

           "Soyougotaguiltyconscienceandcameback,"saidTeece.

           "No,sir,Ijustbroughtthebicycle."

           "What’swrong,couldn’tgetitontherocket?"

           "Thatwasn’tit,sir."

           "Don’ttellmewhatitwas!Getoff,you’renotgoin’tostealmyproperty!"Hegavetheboyapush.Thebicyclefell."Getinsideandstartcleaningthebrass."

           "Begpardon?"Theboy’seyeswidened.

           "YouheardwhatIsaid.There’sgunsneedunpackingthere,andacrateofnailsjustcomefromNatchez—"

           "Mr.Teece."

           "Andaboxofhammersneedfixin’—"

           "Mr.Teece,sir?"

           "Youstillstandin’there!"Teeceglared.

           "Mr.