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- Рэй Брэдбери
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- Марсианские хроники
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- Стр. 145/287
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The
white
men
sat
with
sour
water
in
their
mouths
.
Their
eyes
were
almost
puffed
shut
,
as
if
they
had
been
struck
in
their
faces
by
wind
and
sand
and
heat
.
The
rage
was
in
Samuel
Teece
.
He
climbed
up
on
the
porch
and
glared
at
the
passing
swarms
.
He
waved
his
gun
.
And
after
a
while
when
he
had
to
do
something
,
he
began
to
shout
at
anyone
,
any
Negro
who
looked
up
at
him
.
"
Bang
!
There
’
s
another
rocket
out
in
space
!
"
he
shouted
so
all
could
hear
.
"
Bang
!
By
God
!
"
The
dark
heads
didn
’
t
flicker
or
pretend
to
hear
,
but
their
white
eyes
slid
swiftly
over
and
back
.
"
Crash
!
All
them
rockets
fallin
’
!
Screamin
’
,
dyin
’
!
Bang
!
God
Almighty
,
I
’
m
glad
I
’
m
right
here
on
old
terra
firma
.
As
they
says
in
that
old
joke
,
the
more
firma
,
the
less
terra
!
Ha
,
ha
!
"
Horses
clopped
along
,
shuffling
up
dust
.
Wagons
bumbled
on
ruined
springs
.
"
Bang
!
"
His
voice
was
lonely
in
the
heat
,
trying
to
terrify
the
dust
and
the
blazing
sun
sky
.
"
Wham
!
Niggers
all
over
space
!
Jerked
outa
rockets
like
so
many
minnows
hit
by
a
meteor
,
by
God
!
Space
fulla
meteors
.
You
know
that
?
Sure
!
Thick
as
buckshot
;
powie
!
Shoot
down
them
tin
-
can
rockets
like
so
many
ducks
,
so
many
clay
pipes
!
Ole
sardine
cans
full
of
black
cod
!
Bangin
’
like
a
stringa
ladyfingers
,
bang
,
bang
,
bang
!
Ten
thousand
dead
here
,
ten
thousand
there
.
Floatin
’
in
space
,
around
and
around
earth
,
ever
and
ever
,
cold
and
way
out
,
Lord
!
You
hear
that
,
you
there
!
"
Silence
.
The
river
was
broad
and
continuous
.
Having
entered
all
cotton
shacks
during
the
hour
,
having
flooded
all
the
valuables
out
,
it
was
now
carrying
the
clocks
and
the
washboards
,
the
silk
bolts
and
curtain
rods
on
down
to
some
distant
black
sea
.
High
tide
passed
.
It
was
two
o
’
clock
.
Low
tide
came
.
Soon
the
river
was
dried
up
,
the
town
silent
,
the
dust
settling
in
a
film
on
the
stores
,
the
seated
men
,
the
tall
hot
trees
.
Silence
.
The
men
on
the
porch
listened
.
Hearing
nothing
,
they
extended
their
thoughts
and
their
imaginations
out
and
into
the
surrounding
meadows
.
In
the
early
morning
the
land
had
been
filled
with
its
usual
concoctions
of
sound
.
Here
and
there
,
with
stubborn
persistence
to
custom
,
there
had
been
voices
singing
,
the
honey
laughter
under
the
mimosa
branches
,
the
pickaninnies
rushing
in
clear
water
laughter
at
the
creek
,
movements
and
bendings
in
the
fields
,
jokes
and
shouts
of
amusement
from
the
shingle
shacks
covered
with
fresh
green
vine
.
