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- Рэй Брэдбери
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- Марсианские хроники
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- Стр. 265/287
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Eight
-
one
,
tick
-
tock
,
eight
-
one
o
’
clock
,
off
to
school
,
off
to
work
,
run
,
run
,
eight
-
one
!
But
no
doors
slammed
,
no
carpets
took
the
soft
tread
of
rubber
heels
.
It
was
raining
outside
.
The
weather
box
on
the
front
door
sang
quietly
:
"
Rain
,
rain
,
go
away
;
rubbers
,
raincoats
for
today
…
"
And
the
rain
tapped
on
the
empty
house
,
echoing
.
Outside
,
the
garage
chimed
and
lifted
its
door
to
reveal
the
waiting
car
.
After
a
long
wait
the
door
swung
down
again
.
At
eight
-
thirty
the
eggs
were
shriveled
and
the
toast
was
like
stone
.
An
aluminum
wedge
scraped
them
into
the
sink
,
where
hot
water
whirled
them
down
a
metal
throat
which
digested
and
flushed
them
away
to
the
distant
sea
.
The
dirty
dishes
were
dropped
into
a
hot
washer
and
emerged
twinkling
dry
.
Nine
-
fifteen
,
sang
the
clock
,
time
to
clean
.
Out
of
warrens
in
the
wall
,
tiny
robot
mice
darted
.
The
rooms
were
acrawl
with
the
small
cleaning
animals
,
all
rubber
and
metal
.
They
thudded
against
chairs
,
whirling
their
mustached
runners
,
kneading
the
rug
nap
,
sucking
gently
at
hidden
dust
.
Then
,
like
mysterious
invaders
,
they
popped
into
their
burrows
.
Their
pink
electric
eyes
faded
.
The
house
was
clean
.
Ten
o
’
clock
.
The
sun
came
out
from
behind
the
rain
.
The
house
stood
alone
in
a
city
of
rubble
and
ashes
.
This
was
the
one
house
left
standing
.
At
night
the
ruined
city
gave
off
a
radioactive
glow
which
could
be
seen
for
miles
.
Ten
-
fifteen
.
The
garden
sprinklers
whirled
up
in
golden
founts
,
filling
the
soft
morning
air
with
scatterings
of
brightness
,
The
water
pelted
windowpanes
,
running
down
the
charred
west
side
where
the
house
had
been
burned
evenly
free
of
its
white
paint
.
The
entire
west
face
of
the
house
was
black
,
save
for
five
places
.
Here
the
silhouette
in
paint
of
a
man
mowing
a
lawn
.
Here
,
as
in
a
photograph
,
a
woman
bent
to
pick
flowers
.
Still
farther
over
,
their
images
burned
on
wood
in
one
titanic
instant
,
a
small
boy
,
hands
flung
into
the
air
;
higher
up
,
the
image
of
a
thrown
ball
,
and
opposite
him
a
girl
,
hands
raised
to
catch
a
ball
which
never
came
down
.
The
five
spots
of
paint
—
the
man
,
the
woman
,
the
children
,
the
ball
—
remained
.
The
rest
was
a
thin
charcoaled
layer
.
The
gentle
sprinkler
rain
filled
the
garden
with
falling
light
.
