Марсианские хроники
November 2005: The Off Season
"Weren’tthey?"Elmanoddedbehindhim.
Hedidnotturn.Hefeltacoldwindblowing.Hewasafraidtoturn.Hefeltsomethingintheseatbehindhim,somethingasfrailasyourbreathonacoldmorningsomethingasblueashickory-woodsmokeattwilight,somethinglikeoldwhitelace,somethinglikeasnowfall,somethingliketheicyrimeofwinteronthebrittlesedge.
Therewasasoundasofathinplateofglassbroken—laughter.Thensilence.Heturned.
Theyoungwomansatatthetillerbenchquietly.Herwristswerethinasicicles,hereyesasclearasthemoonsandaslarge,steadyandwhite.Thewindblewatherand,likeanimageoncoldwater,sherippled,silkstandingoutfromherfrailbodyintattersofbluerain.
"Goback,"shesaid.
"No."Samwasquivering,thefine,delicatefear-quiveringofahornetsuspendedintheair,undecidedbetweenfearandhate."Getoffmyship!"
"Thisisn’tyourship,"saidthevision."It’soldasourworld.Itsailedthesandseastenthousandyearsagowhentheseaswerewhisperedawayandthedockswereempty,andyoucameandtookit,stoleit.Nowturnitaround,gobacktothecrossroadplace.Wehaveneedtotalkwithyou.Somethingimportanthashappened."
"Getoffmyship!"saidSam.Hetookagunfromhisholsterwithacreakofleather.Hepointeditcarefully."JumpoffbeforeIcountthreeor—"
"Don’t!"criedthegirl."Iwon’thurtyou.Neitherwilltheothers.Wecameinpeace!"
"One,"saidSam.
"Sam!"saidElma.
