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."
