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- Рэй Брэдбери
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- Стр. 145/264
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He
sat
with
the
receiver
tightly
pressed
to
his
ear
.
And
at
last
,
the
dearest
,
most
improbable
sound
of
all
—
the
sound
of
a
green
trolley
car
going
around
a
comer
—
a
trolley
burdened
with
brown
and
alien
and
beautiful
people
,
and
the
sound
of
other
people
running
and
calling
out
with
triumph
as
they
leaped
up
and
swung
aboard
and
vanished
around
a
corner
on
the
shrieking
rails
and
were
borne
away
in
the
sun
-
blazed
distance
to
leave
only
the
sound
of
tortillas
frying
on
the
market
stoves
,
or
was
it
merely
the
ever
rising
and
falling
hum
and
burn
of
static
quivering
along
two
thousand
miles
of
copper
wire
.
.
.
The
old
man
sat
on
the
floor
.
Time
passed
.
A
downstairs
door
opened
slowly
.
Light
footsteps
came
in
,
hesitated
,
then
ventured
up
the
stairs
.
Voices
murmured
.
"
We
shouldn
’
t
be
here
!
"
"
He
phoned
me
,
I
tell
you
.
He
needs
visitors
bad
.
We
can
’
t
let
him
down
.
"
"
He
’
s
sick
!
"
"
Sure
!
But
he
said
to
come
when
the
nurse
’
s
out
.
We
’
ll
only
stay
a
second
,
say
hello
,
and
.
.
.
"
The
door
to
the
bedroom
moved
wide
.
The
three
boys
stood
looking
in
at
the
old
man
seated
there
on
the
floor
.
