Марсианские хроники
November 2005: The Off Season
"Thisismyluckyday!"
Heboiledthehotdogs,cutthebuns,slicedtheonionsinafrenzy.
"Justthink,thatMartiansaidasurprise.Thatcanonlymeanonething,Elma.Thosehundredthousandpeoplecominginaheadofschedule,tonight,ofallnights!We’llbeflooded!We’llworklonghoursfordays,whatwithtouristsridingaroundseeingthings,Elma.Thinkofthemoney!"
Hewentoutandlookedatthesky.Hedidn’tseeanything.
"Inaminute,maybe,"hesaid,snuffingthecoolairgratefully,armsup,beatinghischest."Ah!"
Elmasaidnothing.ShepeeledpotatoesforFrenchfriesquietly,hereyesalwaysonthesky.
"Sam,"shesaidhalfanhourlater."Thereitis.Look."
Helookedandsawit.
Earth.
Itrosefullandgreen,likeafine-cutstone,abovethehills.
"GoodoldEarth,"hewhisperedlovingly."GoodoldwonderfulEarth.Sendmeyourhungryandyourstarved.Somethingsomething—howdoesthatpoemgo?Sendmeyourhungry,oldEarth.Here’sSamParkhill,hishotdogsallboiled,hischilicooking,everythingneatasapin.Comeon,youEarth,sendmeyourrocket!"
Hewentouttolookathisplace.Thereitsat,perfectasafresh-laideggonthedeadseabottom,theonlynucleusoflightandwarmthinhundredsofmilesoflonelywasteland.Itwaslikeaheartbeatingaloneinagreatdarkbody.Hefeltalmostsorrowfulwithpride,gazingatitwithweteyes.
"Itsuremakesyouhumble,"hesaidamongthecookingodorsofwieners,warmbuns,richbutter."Stepup,"heinvitedthevariousstarsinthesky
