Марсианские хроники
October 2026: The Million-Year Picnic
Theotherboyswerealreadyengagedmakingshelvesoftheirsmallhandsandpeeringunderthemtowardtheseven-footstonebanksofthecanal,watchingforMartians.
"Whatdotheylooklike?"demandedMichael.
"You’llknowthemwhenyouseethem."Dadsortoflaughed,andTimothysawapulsebeatingtimeinhischeek.
Motherwasslenderandsoft,withawovenplaitofspungoldhairoverherheadinatiara,andeyesthecolorofthedeepcoolcanalwaterwhereitraninshadow,almostpurple,withflecksofambercaughtinit.Youcouldseeherthoughtsswimmingaroundinhereyes,likefish—somebright,somedark,somefast,quick,someslowandeasy,andsometimes,likewhenshelookedupwhereEarthwas,beingnothingbutcolorandnothingelse.Shesatintheboat’sprow,onehandrestingonthesidelip,theotheronthelapofherdarkbluebreeches,andalineofsunburntsoftneckshowingwhereherblouseopenedlikeawhiteflower.
Shekeptlookingaheadtoseewhatwasthere,and,notbeingabletoseeitclearlyenough,shelookedbackwardtowardherhusband,andthroughhiseyes,reflectedthen,shesawwhatwasahead;andsinceheaddedpartofhimselftothisreflection,adeterminedfirmness,herfacerelaxedandsheaccepteditandsheturnedback,knowingsuddenlywhattolookfor.
Timothylookedtoo.Butallhesawwasastraightpencillineofcanalgoingvioletthroughawideshallowvalleypennedbylow,erodedhills,andonuntilitfelloverthesky’sedge.
