Марсианские хроники

           ThanktheLordyouhadyourownprivaterocketsorwe’dneverhavebeenallowedtobringmostoftheequipmentthrough.Younotice,it’salwaystwilighthere,thisland,alwaysOctober,barren,sterile,dead.Ittookabitofdoing.Wekilledeverything.TenthousandtonsofDDT.Notasnake,frog,orMartianflyleft!Twilightalways,Mr.Stendahl;I’mproudofthat.Therearemachines,hidden,whichblotoutthesun.It’salwaysproperly«dreary»."

           Stendahldrankitin,thedreariness,theoppression,thefetidvapors,thewhole"atmosphere,"sodelicatelycontrivedandfitted.AndthatHouse!Thatcrumblinghorror,thatevillake,thefungi,theextensivedecay!Plasticorotherwise,whocouldguess?

           Helookedattheautumnsky.Somewhereabove,beyond,faroff,wasthesun.SomewhereitwasthemonthofAprilontheplanetMars,ayellowmonthwithabluesky.Somewhereabove,therocketsburneddowntocivilizeabeautifullydeadplanet.Thesoundoftheirscreamingpassagewasmuffledbythisdim,soundproofedworld,thisancientautumnworld.

           "Nowthatmyjob’sdone,"saidMr.Bigelowuneasily,"Ifeelfreetoaskwhatyou’regoingtodowithallthis."

           "WithUsher?Haven’tyouguessed?"

           "No."

           "DoesthenameUshermeannothingtoyou?"

           "Nothing."

           "Well,whataboutthisname:EdgarAllanPoe?"

           Mr.Bigelowshookhishead.

           "Ofcourse."Stendahlsnorteddelicately,acombinationofdismayandcontempt."HowcouldIexpectyoutoknowblessedMr.Poe?Hediedalongwhileago,beforeLincoln.