Марсианские хроники

           "You’renotsafeinthetown.It’sbetteroutonthecanalwherenoonecanhurtyou,"pleadedtheoldman.

           "That’strue."Thevoicehesitated."ButImustconsiderthesepeoplenow.Howwouldtheyfeelif,inthemorning,Iwasgoneagain,thistimeforgood?Anyway,themotherknowswhatIam;sheguessed,evenasyoudid.Ithinktheyallguessedbutdidn’tquestion.Youdon’tquestionProvidence.Ifyoucan’thavethereality,adreamisjustasgood.PerhapsI’mnottheirdeadoneback,butI’msomethingalmostbettertothem;anidealshapedbytheirminds.Ihaveachoiceofhurtingthemoryourwife."

           "They’reafamilyoffive.Theycanstandyourlossbetter!"

           "Please,"saidthevoice."I’mtired."

           Theoldman’svoicehardened."You’vegottocome.Ican’tletAnnabehurtagain.You’reourson.You’remyson,andyoubelongtous."

           "No,please!"Theshadowtrembled.

           "Youdon’tbelongtothishouseorthesepeople!"

           "No,don’tdothistome!"

           "Tom,Tom,Son,listentome.Comeback,slipdownthevines,boy.Comealong,Anna’swaiting;we’llgiveyouagoodhome,everythingyouwant."Hestaredandstaredupward,willingittobe.

           Theshadowsdrifted,thevinesrustled.

           Atlastthequietvoicesaid,"Allright,Father."

           "Tom!"

           Inthemoonlightthequickfigureofaboysliddownthroughthevines.LaFargeputuphisarmstocatchhim.

           Theroomlightsaboveflashedon.Avoiceissuedfromoneofthegrilledwindows.