Марсианские хроники
February 1999: Ylla
Yllalaidherselfbackinthecanopyand,atawordfromherhusband,thebirdsleaped,burning,towardthedarksky,Theribbonstautened,thecanopylifted.Thesandslidwhiningunder;thebluehillsdriftedby,driftedby,leavingtheirhomebehind,therainingpillars,thecagedflowers,thesingingbooks,thewhisperingfloorcreeks.Shedidnotlookatherhusband.Sheheardhimcryingouttothebirdsastheyrosehigher,liketenthousandhotsparkles,somanyred-yellowfireworksintheheavens,tuggingthecanopylikeaflowerpetal,burningthroughthewind.
Shedidn’twatchthedead,ancientbone-chesscitiesslideunder,ortheoldcanalsfilledwithemptinessanddreams.Pastdryriversanddrylakestheyflew,likeashadowofthemoon,likeatorchburning.
Shewatchedonlythesky.
Thehusbandspoke.
Shewatchedthesky.
"DidyouhearwhatIsaid?"
"What?"
Heexhaled."Youmightpayattention."
"Iwasthinking."
"Ineverthoughtyouwereanaturelover,butyou’recertainlyinterestedintheskytonight,"hesaid.
"It’sverybeautiful."
"Iwasfiguring,"saidthehusbandslowly."IthoughtI’dcallHulletonight.I’dliketotalktohimaboutusspendingsometime,oh,onlyaweekorso,intheBlueMountains.It’sjustanidea—"
"TheBlueMountains!"Sheheldtothecanopyrimwithonehand,turningswiftlytowardhim.
"Oh,it’sjustasuggestion."
"Whendoyouwanttogo?"sheasked,trembling.
"Ithoughtwemightleavetomorrowmorning.
