Марсианские хроники
August 2026: There Will Come Soft Rains
Thefivespotsofpaint—theman,thewoman,thechildren,theball—remained.Therestwasathincharcoaledlayer.
Thegentlesprinklerrainfilledthegardenwithfallinglight.
Untilthisday,howwellthehousehadkeptitspeace.Howcarefullyithadinquired,"Whogoesthere?What’sthepassword?"and,gettingnoanswerfromlonelyfoxesandwhiningcats,ithadshutupitswindowsanddrawnshadesinanold-maidenlypreoccupationwithself-protectionwhichborderedonamechanicalparanoia.
Itquiveredateachsound,thehousedid.Ifasparrowbrushedawindow,theshadesnappedup.Thebird,startled,flewoff!No,notevenabirdmusttouchthehouse!
Thehousewasanaltarwithtenthousandattendants,big,small,servicing,attending,inchoirs.Butthegodshadgoneaway,andtheritualofthereligioncontinuedsenselessly,uselessly.
Twelvenoon.
Adogwhined,shivering,onthefrontporch.
Thefrontdoorrecognizedthedogvoiceandopened.Thedog,oncehugeandfleshy,butnowgonetoboneandcoveredwithsores,movedinandthroughthehouse,trackingmud.Behinditwhirredangrymice,angryathavingtopickupmud,angryatinconvenience.
Fornotaleaffragmentblewunderthedoorbutwhatthewallpanelsflippedopenandthecopperscrapratsflashedswiftlyout.Theoffendingdust,hair,orpaper,seizedinminiaturesteeljaws,wasracedbacktotheburrows.There,downtubeswhichfedintothecellar,itwasdroppedintothesighingventofanincineratorwhichsatlikeevilBaalinadarkcorner.
