Марсианские хроники

November 2005: The Off Season

           "Weareincontactwithoneofyourtownsacrossthedeadsea.Haveyoulistenedonyourradio?"

           "Myradio’sbusted."

           "Thenyoudon’tknow.There’sbignews.ItconcernsEarth"

           Asilverhandgestured.Abronzetubeappearedinit.

           "Letmeshowyouthis."

           "Agun,"criedSamParkhill.

           Aninstantlaterhehadyankedhisowngunfromhishipholsterandfiredintothemist,therobe,thebluemask.

           Themasksustaineditselfamoment.Then,likeasmallcircustentpullingupitsstakesanddroppingsoftfoldonfold,thesilksrustled,themaskdescended,thesilverclawstinkledonthestonepath.Themasklayonasmallhuddleofsilentwhitebonesandmaterial.

           Samstoodgasping.

           Hiswifeswayedoverthehuddledpile.

           "That’snoweapon,"shesaid,bendingdown.Shepickedupthebronzetube."Hewasgoingtoshowyouamessage.It’sallwrittenoutinsnake-script,allthebluesnakes.Ican’treadit.Canyou?"

           "No,thatMartianpicturewriting,itwasn’tanything.Letitgo!"Samglancedhastilyaround."Theremaybeothers!We’vegottogethimoutofsight.Gettheshovel!"

           "What’reyougoingtodo?"

           "Buryhim,ofcourse!"

           "Youshouldn’thaveshothim."

           "Itwasamistake.Quick!"

           Silentlyshefetchedhimtheshovel.

           Ateighto’clockhewasbacksweepingthefrontofthehotdogstandself-consciously.Hiswifestood,armsfolded,inthebrightdoorway.

           "I’msorrywhathappened,"hesaid.Helookedather,thenaway."YouknowitwaspurelythecircumstancesofFate."

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