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- Рэй Брэдбери
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- Марсианские хроники
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- Стр. 146/287
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Now
it
was
as
if
a
great
wind
had
washed
the
land
clean
of
sounds
.
There
was
nothing
.
Skeleton
doors
hung
open
on
leather
hinges
.
Rubber
-
tire
swings
hung
in
the
silent
air
,
uninhibited
.
The
washing
rocks
at
the
river
were
empty
,
and
the
watermelon
patches
,
if
any
,
were
left
alone
to
heat
their
hidden
liquors
in
the
sun
.
Spiders
started
building
new
webs
in
abandoned
huts
;
dust
started
to
sift
in
from
unpatched
roofs
in
golden
spicules
.
Here
and
there
a
fire
,
forgotten
in
the
last
rush
,
lingered
and
in
a
sudden
access
of
strength
fed
upon
the
dry
bones
of
some
littered
shack
.
The
sound
of
a
gentle
feeding
burn
went
up
through
the
silenced
air
.
The
men
sat
on
the
hardware
porch
,
not
blinking
or
swallowing
.
"
I
can
’
t
figure
why
they
left
now
.
With
things
lookin
’
up
.
I
mean
,
every
day
they
got
more
rights
.
What
they
want
,
anyway
?
Here
’
s
the
poll
tax
gone
,
and
more
and
more
states
passin
’
anti
-
lynchin
’
bills
,
and
all
kinds
of
equal
rights
.
What
more
they
want
?
They
make
almost
as
good
money
as
a
white
man
,
but
there
they
go
.
"
Far
down
the
empty
street
a
bicycle
came
.
"
I
’
ll
be
goddamned
.
Teece
,
here
comes
your
Silly
now
.
"
The
bicycle
pulled
up
before
the
porch
,
a
seventeen
-
year
-
old
colored
boy
on
it
,
all
arms
and
feet
and
long
legs
and
round
watermelon
head
.
He
looked
up
at
Samuel
Teece
and
smiled
.
"
So
you
got
a
guilty
conscience
and
came
back
,
"
said
Teece
.
"
No
,
sir
,
I
just
brought
the
bicycle
.
"
"
What
’
s
wrong
,
couldn
’
t
get
it
on
the
rocket
?
"
