Марсианские хроники

           Lookingbackanxiously,hepurchasedtheticketsforthetheaterandallowedhiswifetodrawhimintotheunwelcomedarkness.

           Tomwasnotatthelandingateleveno’clock.Mrs.LaFargeturnedverypale.

           "Now,Mother,"saidLaFarge,"don’tworry.I’llfindhim.Waithere."

           "Hurryback."Hervoicefadedintotherippleofthewater.

           Hewalkedthroughthenightstreets,handsinpockets.Allabout,lightsweregoingoutonebyone.Afewpeoplewerestillleaningouttheirwindows,forthenightwaswarm,eventhoughtheskystillheldstormcloudsfromtimetotimeamongthestars.Ashewalkedherecalledtheboy’sconstantreferencestobeingtrapped,hisfearofcrowdsandcities.Therewasnosenseinit,thoughttheoldmantiredly.Perhapstheboywasgoneforever,perhapshehadneverbeen.LaFargeturnedinataparticularalley,watchingthenumbers.

           "Hellothere,LaFarge."

           Amansatinhisdoorway,smokingapipe.

           "Hello,Mike."

           "Youandyourwomanquarrel?Yououtwalkingitoff?"

           "No.Justwalking."

           "Youlooklikeyoulostsomething.Speakingoflostthings,"saidMike,"somebodygotfoundthisevening.YouknowJoeSpaulding?YourememberhisdaughterLavinia?"

           "Yes."LaFargewascold.Itallseemedarepeateddream,Heknewwhichwordswouldcomenext.

           "Laviniacamehometonight,"saidMike,smoking."Yourecall,shewaslostonthedeadseabottomsaboutamonthago?Theyfoundwhattheythoughtwasherbody,badlydeteriorated,andeversincetheSpauldingfamily’sbeennogood.