Марсианские хроники
April 2000: The Third Expedition
Ithadbeenthirtyyearssincehehadbeeninasmalltown,andthebuzzingofspringbeesontheairlulledandquietedhim,andthefreshlookofthingswasabalmtothesoul.
Theysetfootupontheporch.Hollowechoessoundedfromundertheboardsastheywalkedtothescreendoor.Insidetheycouldseeabeadcurtainhungacrossthehallentry,andacrystalchandelierandaMaxfieldParrishpaintingframedononewalloveracomfortableMorrischair.Thehousesmelledold,andoftheattic,andinfinitelycomfortable.Youcouldhearthetinkleoficeinalemonadepitcher.Inadistantkitchen,becauseoftheheatoftheday,someonewaspreparingacoldlunch.Someonewashummingunderherbreath,highandsweet.
CaptainJohnBlackrangthebell.
Footsteps,daintyandthin,camealongthehall,andakind-facedladyofsomefortyyears,dressedinasortofdressyoumightexpectintheyear1909,peeredoutatthem.
"CanIhelpyou?"sheasked.
"Begyourpardon,"saidCaptainBlackuncertainly."Butwe’relookingfor—thatis,couldyouhelpus—"Hestopped.Shelookedoutathimwithdark,wonderingeyes.
"Ifyou’resellingsomething—"shebegan.
"No,wait!"hecried."Whattownisthis?"
Shelookedhimupanddown."Whatdoyoumean,whattownisit?Howcouldyoubeinatownandnotknowthename?"
Thecaptainlookedasifhewantedtogositunderashadyappletree."We’restrangershere.Wewanttoknowhowthistowngothereandhowyougothere."
"Areyoucensustakers?"
"No."
