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- Рэй Брэдбери
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- Марсианские хроники
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- Стр. 266/287
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Until
this
day
,
how
well
the
house
had
kept
its
peace
.
How
carefully
it
had
inquired
,
"
Who
goes
there
?
What
’
s
the
password
?
"
and
,
getting
no
answer
from
lonely
foxes
and
whining
cats
,
it
had
shut
up
its
windows
and
drawn
shades
in
an
old
-
maidenly
preoccupation
with
self
-
protection
which
bordered
on
a
mechanical
paranoia
.
It
quivered
at
each
sound
,
the
house
did
.
If
a
sparrow
brushed
a
window
,
the
shade
snapped
up
.
The
bird
,
startled
,
flew
off
!
No
,
not
even
a
bird
must
touch
the
house
!
The
house
was
an
altar
with
ten
thousand
attendants
,
big
,
small
,
servicing
,
attending
,
in
choirs
.
But
the
gods
had
gone
away
,
and
the
ritual
of
the
religion
continued
senselessly
,
uselessly
.
Twelve
noon
.
A
dog
whined
,
shivering
,
on
the
front
porch
.
The
front
door
recognized
the
dog
voice
and
opened
.
The
dog
,
once
huge
and
fleshy
,
but
now
gone
to
bone
and
covered
with
sores
,
moved
in
and
through
the
house
,
tracking
mud
.
Behind
it
whirred
angry
mice
,
angry
at
having
to
pick
up
mud
,
angry
at
inconvenience
.
For
not
a
leaf
fragment
blew
under
the
door
but
what
the
wall
panels
flipped
open
and
the
copper
scrap
rats
flashed
swiftly
out
.
The
offending
dust
,
hair
,
or
paper
,
seized
in
miniature
steel
jaws
,
was
raced
back
to
the
burrows
.
There
,
down
tubes
which
fed
into
the
cellar
,
it
was
dropped
into
the
sighing
vent
of
an
incinerator
which
sat
like
evil
Baal
in
a
dark
corner
.
The
dog
ran
upstairs
,
hysterically
yelping
to
each
door
,
at
last
realizing
,
as
the
house
realized
,
that
only
silence
was
here
.
It
sniffed
the
air
and
scratched
the
kitchen
door
.
Behind
the
door
,
the
stove
was
making
pancakes
which
filled
the
house
with
a
rich
baked
odor
and
the
scent
of
maple
syrup
.
The
dog
frothed
at
the
mouth
,
lying
at
the
door
,
sniffing
,
its
eyes
turned
to
fire
.
It
ran
wildly
in
circles
,
biting
at
its
tail
,
spun
in
a
frenzy
,
and
died
.
It
lay
in
the
parlor
for
an
hour
.
