Марсианские хроники
August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains
Analuminumwedgescrapedthemintothesink,wherehotwaterwhirledthemdownametalthroatwhichdigestedandflushedthemawaytothedistantsea.Thedirtydishesweredroppedintoahotwasherandemergedtwinklingdry.
Nine-fifteen,sangtheclock,timetoclean.
Outofwarrensinthewall,tinyrobotmicedarted.Theroomswereacrawlwiththesmallcleaninganimals,allrubberandmetal.Theythuddedagainstchairs,whirlingtheirmustachedrunners,kneadingtherugnap,suckinggentlyathiddendust.Then,likemysteriousinvaders,theypoppedintotheirburrows.Theirpinkelectriceyesfaded.Thehousewasclean.
Teno’clock.Thesuncameoutfrombehindtherain.Thehousestoodaloneinacityofrubbleandashes.Thiswastheonehouseleftstanding.Atnighttheruinedcitygaveoffaradioactiveglowwhichcouldbeseenformiles.
Ten-fifteen.Thegardensprinklerswhirledupingoldenfounts,fillingthesoftmorningairwithscatteringsofbrightness,Thewaterpeltedwindowpanes,runningdownthecharredwestsidewherethehousehadbeenburnedevenlyfreeofitswhitepaint.Theentirewestfaceofthehousewasblack,saveforfiveplaces.Herethesilhouetteinpaintofamanmowingalawn.Here,asinaphotograph,awomanbenttopickflowers.Stillfartherover,theirimagesburnedonwoodinonetitanicinstant,asmallboy,handsflungintotheair;higherup,theimageofathrownball,andoppositehimagirl,handsraisedtocatchaballwhichnevercamedown.
