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- Рэй Брэдбери
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- Марсианские хроники
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- Стр. 271/287
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But
too
late
.
Somewhere
,
sighing
,
a
pump
shrugged
to
a
stop
.
The
quenching
rain
ceased
.
The
reserve
water
supply
which
had
filled
baths
and
washed
dishes
for
many
quiet
days
was
gone
.
The
fire
crackled
up
the
stairs
.
It
fed
upon
Picassos
and
Matisses
in
the
upper
halls
,
like
delicacies
,
baking
off
the
oily
flesh
,
tenderly
crisping
the
canvases
into
black
shavings
.
Now
the
fire
lay
in
beds
,
stood
in
windows
,
changed
the
colors
of
drapes
!
And
then
,
reinforcements
.
From
attic
trapdoors
,
blind
robot
faces
peered
down
with
faucet
mouths
gushing
green
chemical
.
The
fire
backed
off
,
as
even
an
elephant
must
at
the
sight
of
a
dead
snake
.
Now
there
were
twenty
snakes
whipping
over
the
floor
,
killing
the
fire
with
a
clear
cold
venom
of
green
froth
.
But
the
fire
was
clever
.
It
had
sent
flames
outside
the
house
,
up
through
the
attic
to
the
pumps
there
.
An
explosion
!
The
attic
brain
which
directed
the
pumps
was
shattered
into
bronze
shrapnel
on
the
beams
.
The
fire
rushed
back
into
every
closet
and
felt
of
the
clothes
hung
there
.
The
house
shuddered
,
oak
bone
on
bone
,
its
bared
skeleton
cringing
from
the
heat
,
its
wire
,
its
nerves
revealed
as
if
a
surgeon
had
torn
the
skin
off
to
let
the
red
veins
and
capillaries
quiver
in
the
scalded
air
.
Help
,
help
!
Fire
!
Run
,
run
!
Heat
snapped
mirrors
like
the
brittle
winter
ice
.
And
the
voices
wailed
Fire
,
fire
,
run
,
run
,
like
a
tragic
nursery
rhyme
,
a
dozen
voices
,
high
,
low
,
like
children
dying
in
a
forest
,
alone
,
alone
.
And
the
voices
fading
as
the
wires
popped
their
sheathings
like
hot
chestnuts
.
One
,
two
,
three
,
four
,
five
voices
died
.
