-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Рэй Брэдбери
-
- Марсианские хроники
-
- Стр. 274/287
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
And
Dad
looked
as
if
he
was
pleased
that
it
was
dead
.
It
was
a
futile
spread
of
pink
rocks
sleeping
on
a
rise
of
sand
,
a
few
tumbled
pillars
,
one
lonely
shrine
,
and
then
the
sweep
of
sand
again
.
Nothing
else
for
miles
.
A
white
desert
around
the
canal
and
a
blue
desert
over
it
.
Just
then
a
bird
flew
up
.
Like
a
stone
thrown
across
a
blue
pond
,
hitting
,
falling
deep
,
and
vanishing
.
Dad
got
a
frightened
look
when
he
saw
it
.
"
I
thought
it
was
a
rocket
.
"
Timothy
looked
at
the
deep
ocean
sky
,
trying
to
see
Earth
and
the
war
and
the
ruined
cities
and
the
men
killing
each
other
since
the
day
he
was
born
.
But
he
saw
nothing
.
The
war
was
as
removed
and
far
off
as
two
flies
battling
to
the
death
in
the
arch
of
a
great
high
and
silent
cathedral
.
And
just
as
senseless
.
William
Thomas
wiped
his
forehead
and
felt
the
touch
of
his
son
’
s
hand
on
his
arm
,
like
a
young
tarantula
,
thrilled
.
He
beamed
at
his
son
.
"
How
goes
it
,
Timmy
?
"
"
Fine
,
Dad
.
"
Timothy
hadn
’
t
quite
figured
out
what
was
ticking
inside
the
vast
adult
mechanism
beside
him
.
The
man
with
the
immense
hawk
nose
,
sunburnt
,
peeling
—
and
the
hot
blue
eyes
like
agate
marbles
you
play
with
after
school
in
summer
back
on
Earth
,
and
the
long
thick
columnar
legs
in
the
loose
riding
breeches
.
"
What
are
you
looking
at
so
hard
,
Dad
?
"
