Марсианские хроники
November 2005: The Off Season
"Pickupyourgun,"saidtheMartiansinchorus.
"What?"
"Yourgun."Ajeweledhandwavedfromtheprowofablueship."Pickitup.Putitaway."
Unbelievinghepickedupthegun.
"Now,"saidthevoice,"turnyourshipandgobacktoyourstand."
"Now?"
"Now,"saidthevoice."Wewillnotharmyou.Youranawaybeforewewereabletoexplain.Come."
Nowthegreatshipsturnedaslightlyasmoonthistles.Theirwing-sailsflappedwithasoundofsoftapplauseontheair,Themaskswerecoruscating,turning,firingtheshadows.
"Elma!"Samtumbledintotheship."Getup,Elma.We’regoingback."Hewasexcited.Healmostgibberedwithrelief."Theyaren’tgoingtohurtme,killme,Elma.Getup,honey,getup."
"What—what?"Elmablinkedaroundandslowly,astheshipwassentintothewindagain,shehelpedherself,asinadream,backuptoaseatandslumpedtherelikeasackofstones,sayingnomore.
Thesandslidundertheship.Inhalfanhourtheywerebackatthecrossroads,theshipsplanted,allofthemoutoftheships.
TheLeaderstoodbeforeSamandElma,hismaskbeatenofpolishedbronze,theeyesonlyemptyslitsofendlessblue-black,themouthaslotoutofwhichwordsdriftedintothewind.
"Readyyourstand,"saidthevoice.Adiamond-glovedhandwaved."Preparetheviands,preparethefoods,preparethestrangewines,fortonightisindeedagreatnight!"
"Youmean,"saidSam,"you’llletmestayonhere?"
"Yes."
