Марсианские хроники

           Hewantsmewithonlyoneholeinme.Isn’tthatodd?Hewantsmydeathtobeclean.Nothingmessy.Why?Becauseheunderstandsme.Andbecauseheunderstands,he’swillingtoriskgoodmentogivemeacleanshotinthehead.Isn’tthatit?

           Nine,tenshotsbrokeoutinarattle.Rocksaroundhimjumpedup.Spenderfiredsteadily,sometimeswhileglancingatthesilverbookhecarriedinhishand.

           Thecaptainraninthehotsunlightwitharifleinhishands.Spenderfollowedhiminhispistolsightsbutdidnotfire.InsteadheshiftedandblewthetopoffarockwhereWhitielay,andheardanangryshout.

           Suddenlythecaptainstoodup.Hehadawhitehandkerchiefinhishands.Hesaidsomethingtohismenandcamewalkingupthemountainafterputtingasidehisrifle.Spenderlaythere,thengottohisfeet,hispistolready.

           Thecaptaincameupandsatdownonawarmboulder,notlookingatSpenderforamoment.

           Thecaptainreachedintohisblousepocket.Spender’sfingerstightenedonthepistol.

           Thecaptainsaid,"Cigarette?"

           "Thanks."Spendertookone.

           "Light?"

           "Gotmyown."

           Theytookoneortwopuffsinsilence.

           "Warm,"saidthecaptain.

           "Itis."

           "Youcomfortableuphere?"

           "Quite."

           "Howlongdoyouthinkyoucanholdout?"

           "Abouttwelvemen’sworth."

           "Whydidn’tyoukillallofusthismorningwhenyouhadthechance?Youcouldhave,youknow."

           "Iknow.Igotsick.Whenyouwanttodoathingbadlyenoughyoulietoyourself.Yousaytheotherpeopleareallwrong.