Марсианские хроники

           Hefittedhimselfforanewblueflannelsuit,andarichgrayHomburgwhichbalancedoddlyatophisgaunthead.Heslidmoneyintoajukeboxwhichplayed"ThatOldGangofMine."Hedroppednickelsintwentyboxesallovertown.Thelonelystreetsandthenightwerefullofthesadmusicof"ThatOldGangofMine"ashewalked,tallandthinandalone,hisnewshoesclumpingsoftly,hiscoldhandsinhispockets.

           Butthatwasaweekpast.HesleptinagoodhouseonMarsAvenue,rosemorningsatnine,bathed,andidledtotownforhamandeggs.Nomorningpassedthathedidn’tfreezeatonofmeats,vegetables,andlemoncreampies,enoughtolasttenyears,untiltherocketscamebackfromEarth,iftheyevercame.

           Now,tonight,hedriftedupanddown,seeingthewaxwomenineverycolorfulshopwindow,pinkandbeautiful.Forthefirsttimeheknewhowdeadthetownwas.Hedrewaglassofbeerandsobbedgently.

           "Why,"hesaid,"I’mallalone."

           HeenteredtheEliteTheatertoshowhimselfafilm,todistracthismindfromhisisolation.Thetheaterwashollow,empty,likeatombwithphantomscrawlinggrayandblackonthevastscreen.Shivering,hehurriedfromthehauntedplace.

           Havingdecidedtoreturnhome,hewasstrikingdownthemiddleofasidestreet,almostrunning,whenheheardthephone.

           Helistened.

           "Phoneringinginsomeone’shouse."

           Heproceededbriskly.

           "Someoneshouldanswerthatphone,"hemused.

           Hesatonacurbtopickarockfromhisshoe,idly.

           "Someone!"hescreamed,leaping.