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- Рэй Брэдбери
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- Марсианские хроники
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- Стр. 115/287
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But
what
if
new
forms
were
introduced
?
Earth
trees
,
great
mimosas
and
weeping
willows
and
magnolias
and
magnificent
eucalyptus
.
What
then
?
There
was
no
guessing
what
mineral
wealth
hid
in
the
soil
,
untapped
because
the
old
ferns
,
flowers
,
bushes
,
and
trees
had
tired
themselves
to
death
.
"
Let
me
up
!
"
he
shouted
.
"
I
’
ve
got
to
see
the
Co
-
ordinator
!
"
He
and
the
Co
-
ordinator
had
talked
an
entire
morning
about
things
that
grew
and
were
green
.
It
would
be
months
,
if
not
years
,
before
organized
planting
began
.
So
far
,
frosted
food
was
brought
from
Earth
in
flying
icicles
;
a
few
community
gardens
were
greening
up
in
hydroponic
plants
.
"
Meanwhile
,
"
said
the
Co
-
ordinator
,
"
it
’
s
your
job
.
We
’
ll
get
what
seed
we
can
for
you
,
a
little
equipment
.
Space
on
the
rockets
is
mighty
precious
now
.
I
’
m
afraid
,
since
these
first
towns
are
mining
communities
,
there
won
’
t
be
much
sympathy
for
your
tree
planting
—
"
"
But
you
’
ll
let
me
do
it
?
"
They
let
him
do
it
.
Provided
with
a
single
motorcycle
,
its
bin
full
of
rich
seeds
and
sprouts
,
he
had
parked
his
vehicle
in
the
valley
wilderness
and
struck
out
on
foot
over
the
land
.
That
had
been
thirty
days
ago
,
and
he
had
never
glanced
back
.
For
looking
back
would
have
been
sickening
to
the
heart
.
The
weather
was
excessively
dry
;
it
was
doubtful
if
any
seeds
had
sprouted
yet
.
Perhaps
his
entire
campaign
,
his
four
weeks
of
bending
and
scooping
were
lost
.
He
kept
his
eyes
only
ahead
of
him
,
going
on
down
this
wide
shallow
valley
under
the
sun
,
away
from
First
Town
,
waiting
for
the
rains
to
come
.
Clouds
were
gathering
over
the
dry
mountains
now
as
he
drew
his
blanket
over
his
shoulders
.
Mars
was
a
place
as
unpredictable
as
time
.
He
felt
the
baked
hills
simmering
down
into
frosty
night
,
and
he
thought
of
the
rich
,
inky
soil
,
a
soil
so
black
and
shiny
it
almost
crawled
and
stirred
in
your
fist
,
a
rank
soil
from
which
might
sprout
gigantic
beanstalks
from
which
,
with
bone
-
shaking
concussion
,
might
drop
screaming
giants
.
The
fire
fluttered
into
sleepy
ash
.
The
air
tremored
to
the
distant
roll
of
a
cartwheel
.
Thunder
.
A
sudden
odor
of
water
.
Tonight
,
he
thought
,
and
put
his
hand
out
to
feel
for
rain
.
Tonight
.
He
awoke
to
a
tap
on
his
brow
.
