Марсианские хроники

           ThefourEarthMensataroundawoodentable,theirbleakheadsbentovertheirwhispers.Onthefloors,menandwomenlayhuddled.Therewerelittlestirsinthedarkcorners,solitarymenorwomengesturingtheirhands.Everyhalf-houroneofthecaptain’smenwouldtrythesilverdoorandreturntothetable."Nothingdoing,sir.We’relockedinproper."

           "Theythinkwe’rereallyinsane,sir?"

           "Quite.That’swhytherewasnohullabalootowelcomeus.Theymerelytoleratedwhat,tothem,mustbeaconstantlyrecurringpsychoticcondition."Hegesturedatthedarksleepingshapesallaboutthem."Paranoids,everysingleone!Whatawelcometheygaveus!Foramomentthere"—alittlefireroseanddiedinhiseyes—"Ithoughtweweregettingourtruereception.Alltheyellingandsingingandspeeches.Prettynice,wasn’tit—whileitlasted?"

           "Howlongwilltheykeepushere,sir?"

           "Untilweprovewe’renotpsychotics."

           "Thatshouldbeeasy."

           "Ihopeso."

           "Youdon’tsoundverycertain,sir."

           "I’mnot.Lookinthatcorner."

           Amansquattedaloneindarkness.Outofhismouthissuedablueflamewhichturnedintotheroundshapeofasmallnakedwoman.Itflourishedontheairsoftlyinvaporsofcobaltlight,whisperingandsighing.

           Thecaptainnoddedatanothercorner.Awomanstoodthere,changing.Firstshewasembeddedinacrystalpillar,thenshemeltedintoagoldenstatue,finallyastaffofpolishedcedar,andbacktoawoman.