Марсианские хроники/The Martian Chronicles (Рэй Брэдбери). Страница 270 из 287

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Not

one

would

mind

,

neither

bird

nor

tree

,

If

mankind

perished

utterly

;

And

Spring

herself

,

when

she

woke

at

dawn

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Would

scarcely

know

that

we

were

gone

.

"

The

fire

burned

on

the

stone

hearth

and

the

cigar

fell

away

into

a

mound

of

quiet

ash

on

its

tray

.

The

empty

chairs

faced

each

other

between

the

silent

walls

,

and

the

music

played

.

At

ten

o

’

clock

the

house

began

to

die

.

The

wind

blew

.

A

falling

tree

bough

crashed

through

the

kitchen

window

.

Cleaning

solvent

,

bottled

,

shattered

over

the

stove

.

The

room

was

ablaze

in

an

instant

!

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"

Fire

!

"

screamed

a

voice

.

The

house

lights

flashed

,

water

pumps

shot

water

from

the

ceilings

.

But

the

solvent

spread

on

the

linoleum

,

licking

eating

under

the

kitchen

door

,

while

the

voices

took

it

up

in

chorus

:

"

Fire

,

fire

,

fire

!

"

The

house

tried

to

save

itself

.

Doors

sprang

tightly

shut

,

but

the

windows

were

broken

by

the

heat

and

the

wind

blew

and

sucked

upon

the

fire

.

The

house

gave

ground

as

the

fire

in

ten

billion

angry

sparks

moved

with

flaming

ease

from

room

to

room

and

then

up

the

stairs

.

While

scurrying

water

rats

squeaked

from

the

walls

,

pistoled

their

water

,

and

ran

for

more

.

And

the

wall

sprays

let

down

showers

of

mechanical

rain

.

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