Марсианские хроники
February 1999: Ylla
Thehousewasclosingitselfin,likeagiantflower,withthepassingoflight.Awindblewamongthepillars;thefiretablebubbleditsfiercepoolofsilverlava.Thewindstirredherrussethair,crooningsoftlyinherears.Shestoodsilentlylookingoutintothegreatsallowdistancesofseabottom,asifrecallingsomething,heryelloweyessoftandmoist,"Drinktomeonlywiththineeyes,andIwillpledgewithmine,"shesang,softly,quietly,slowly."Orleaveakisswithinthecup,andI’llnotaskforwine."Shehummednow,movingherhandsinthewindeversolightly,hereyesshut.Shefinishedthesong.
Itwasverybeautiful.
"Neverheardthatsongbefore.Didyoucomposeit?"heinquired,hiseyessharp.
"No,Yes.No,Idon’tknow,really!"Shehesitatedwildly."Idon’tevenknowwhatthewordsare;they’reanotherlanguage!"
"Whatlanguage?"
Shedroppedportionsofmeatnumblyintothesimmeringlava."Idon’tknow."Shedrewthemeatforthamomentlater,cooked,servedonaplateforhim."It’sjustacrazythingImadeup,Iguess.Idon’tknowwhy."
Hesaidnothing.Hewatchedherdrownmeatsinthehissingfirepool.Thesunwasgone.Slowly,slowlythenightcameintofilltheroom,swallowingthepillarsandbothofthem,likeadarkwinepouredtotheceiling.Onlythesilverlava’sglowlittheirfaces.
Shehummedthestrangesongagain.
Instantlyheleapedfromhischairandstalkedangrilyfromtheroom.
Later,inisolation,hefinishedsupper.
