Марсианские хроники

           "I’mafraidofthetown,"hesaid."Thepeople.Idon’twanttogothere."

           "Suchtalkforagrownboy,"saidAnna."Iwon’tlistentoit.You’llcomealong.Isayso."

           "Anna,iftheboydoesn’twantto…"startedtheoldman.

           Buttherewasnoarguing.Shehustledthemintothecanalboatandtheyfloatedupthecanalundertheeveningstars,Tomlyingonhisback,hiseyesclosed;asleepornot,therewasnotelling.Theoldmanlookedathimsteadily,wondering.Whoisthis,hethought,inneedofloveasmuchaswe?Whoisheandwhatishethat,outofloneliness,hecomesintothealiencampandassumesthevoiceandfaceofmemoryandstandsamongus,acceptedandhappyatlast?Fromwhatmountain,whatcave,whatsmalllastraceofpeopleremainingonthisworldwhentherocketscamefromEarth?Theoldmanshookhishead.Therewasnowaytoknow.This,toallpurposes,wasTom.

           Theoldmanlookedatthetownaheadanddidnotlikeit,butthenhereturnedtothoughtsofTomandAnnaagainandhethoughttohimself:PerhapsthisiswrongtokeepTombutalittlewhile,whennothingcancomeofitbuttroubleandsorrow,buthowarewetogiveuptheverythingwe’vewanted,nomatterifitstaysonlyadayandisgone,makingtheemptinessemptier,thedarknightsdarker,therainynightswetter?Youmightaswellforcethefoodfromourmouthsastakethisonefromus.

           Andhelookedattheboyslumberingsopeacefullyatthebottomoftheboat.Theboywhimperedwithsomedream."Thepeople,"hemurmuredinhissleep.