Марсианские хроники

           Aboxofcreamchocolateslayopeninherarms.Herfingers,cuddlingit,wereplumpandpallid.Herface,ashesteppedintothelight,wasroundandthick,andhereyeswereliketwoimmenseeggsstuckintoawhitemessofbreaddough.Herlegswereasbigaroundasthestumpsoftrees,andshemovedwithanungainlyshuffle.Herhairwasanindiscriminateshadeofbrownthathadbeenmadeandremade,itappeared,asanestforbirds.Shehadnolipsatallandcompensatedthisbystencilingonalargered,greasymouththatnowpoppedopenindelight,nowshutinsuddenalarm.Shehadpluckedherbrowstothinantennalines.

           Walterstopped.Hissmiledissolved.Hestoodlookingather.

           Shedroppedhercandyboxtothesidewalk.

           "Areyou—GenevieveSelsor?"Hisearsrang.

           "AreyouWalterGriff?"sheasked.

           "Gripp."

           "Gripp,"shecorrectedherself.

           "Howdoyoudo,"hesaidwitharestrainedvoice.

           "Howdoyoudo."Sheshookhishand.

           Herfingerswerestickywithchocolate.

           "Well,"saidWalterGripp.

           "What?"askedGenevieveSelsor.

           "Ijustsaid,«Well,»"saidWalter.

           "Oh."

           Itwasnineo’clockatnight.Theyhadspentthedaypicnicking,andforsupperhehadpreparedafiletmignonwhichshedidn’tlikebecauseitwastoorare,sohebroileditsomemoreanditwastoomuchbroiledorfriedorsomething.Helaughedandsaid,"We’llseeamovie!"Shesaidokayandputherchocolatyfingersonhiselbow.Butallshewantedtoseewasafifty-year-oldfilmofClarkGable."Doesn’thejustkillyou?"Shegiggled.