Марсианские хроники

           Shetriedtostopthewordsfromcomingoutofherlips,butthewordswerethese:

           "Shewalksinbeauty,likethenight

           Ofcloudlessclimesandstarryskies;

           Andallthat’sbestofdarkandbright

           Meetinheraspectandhereyes…"

           Thesingerdaspedherhandstohermouth.Shestood,bewildered.

           "Whatwordsarethose?"askedthemusicians.

           "Whatsongisthat?"

           "Whatlanguageisthat!"

           Andwhentheyblewagainupontheirgoldenhornsthestrangemusiccameforthandpassedslowlyovertheaudience,whichnowtalkedaloudandstoodup.

           "What’swrongwithyou?"themusiciansaskedeachother.

           "Whattuneisthatyouplayed?"

           "Whattunedidyouplay?"

           Thewomanweptandranfromthestage,Andtheaudiencemovedoutoftheamphitheater.AndallaroundthenervoustownsofMarsasimilarthinghadhappened.Acoldnesshadcome,likewhitesnowfallingontheair.

           Intheblackalleys,underthetorches,thechildrensang:

           "—andwhenshegotthere,thecupboardwasbare,

           Andsoherpoordoghadnone!"

           "Children!"voicescried."Whatwasthatrhyme?Wheredidyoulearnit?"

           "Wejustthoughtofit,allofasudden.It’sjustwordswedon’tunderstand."

           Doorsslammed.Thestreetsweredeserted.Abovethebluehillsagreenstarrose.

           AlloverthenightsideofMarsloversawoketolistentotheirlovedoneswholayhumminginthedarkness.

           "Whatisthattune?"

           Andinathousandvillas,inthemiddleofthenight,womenawoke,screaming.Theyhadtobesoothedwhilethetearsrandowntheirfaces,"There,there.Sleep