Марсианские хроники
February 1999: Ylla
Thefootstepswalkeduptheramp.Ahandtwistedthedoorlatch.
Shesmiledatthedoor.
Thedooropened.Shestoppedsmiling.
Itwasherhusband.Hissilvermaskgloweddully.
Heenteredtheroomandlookedatherforonlyamoment.Thenhesnappedtheweaponbellowsopen,crackedouttwodeadbees,heardthemspatonthefloorastheyfell,steppedonthem,andplacedtheemptybellowsguninthecorneroftheroomasYllabentdownandtried,overandover,withnosuccess,topickupthepiecesoftheshatteredglass."Whatwereyoudoing?"sheasked.
"Nothing,"hesaidwithhisbackturned.Heremovedthemask.
"Butthegun—Iheardyoufireit.Twice."
"Justhunting.Onceinawhileyouliketohunt.DidDr.Nilearrive?"
"No."
"Waitaminute."Hesnappedhisfingersdisgustedly."Why,Iremembernow.Hewassupposedtovisitustomorrowafternoon.Howstupidofme."
Theysatdowntoeat.Shelookedatherfoodanddidnotmoveherhands."What’swrong?"heasked,notlookingupfromdippinghismeatinthebubblinglava.
"Idon’tknow.I’mnothungry,"shesaid.
"Whynot?"
"Idon’tknow;I’mjustnot."
Thewindwasrisingacrossthesky;thesunwasgoingdown.Theroomwassmallandsuddenlycold.
"I’vebeentryingtoremember,"shesaidinthesilentroom,acrossfromhercold,erect,golden-eyedhusband.
"Rememberwhat?"Hesippedhiswine.
"Thatsong.Thatfineandbeautifulsong."Sheclosedhereyesandhummed,butitwasnotthesong."I’veforgottenit
