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- Рэй Брэдбери
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Spender
turned
and
went
to
sit
at
the
fire
,
looking
into
it
.
Chicken
pox
,
God
,
chicken
pox
,
think
of
it
!
A
race
builds
itself
for
a
million
years
,
refines
itself
,
erects
cities
like
those
out
there
,
does
everything
it
can
to
give
itself
respect
and
beauty
,
and
then
it
dies
.
Part
of
it
dies
slowly
,
in
its
own
time
,
before
our
age
,
with
dignity
.
But
the
rest
!
Does
the
rest
of
Mars
die
of
a
disease
with
a
fine
name
or
a
terrifying
name
or
a
majestic
name
?
No
,
in
the
name
of
all
that
’
s
holy
,
it
has
to
be
chicken
pox
,
a
child
’
s
disease
,
a
disease
that
doesn
’
t
even
kill
children
on
Earth
!
It
’
s
not
right
and
it
’
s
not
fair
.
It
’
s
like
saying
the
Greeks
died
of
mumps
,
or
the
proud
Romans
died
on
their
beautiful
hills
of
athlete
’
s
foot
!
If
only
we
’
d
given
the
Martians
time
to
arrange
their
death
robes
,
lie
down
,
look
fit
,
and
think
up
some
other
excuse
for
dying
.
It
can
’
t
be
a
dirty
,
silly
thing
like
chicken
pox
.
It
doesn
’
t
fit
the
architecture
;
it
doesn
’
t
fit
this
entire
world
!
"
All
right
,
Hathaway
,
get
yourself
some
food
.
"
"
Thank
you
,
Captain
.
"
And
as
quickly
as
that
it
was
forgotten
.
The
men
talked
among
themselves
.
Spender
did
not
take
his
eyes
off
them
.
He
left
his
food
on
his
plate
under
his
hands
.
He
felt
the
land
getting
colder
.
The
stars
drew
closer
,
very
clear
.
When
anyone
talked
too
loudly
the
captain
would
reply
in
a
low
voice
that
made
them
talk
quietly
from
imitation
.
The
air
smelled
clean
and
new
.
Spender
sat
for
a
long
time
just
enjoying
the
way
it
was
made
.
It
had
a
lot
of
things
in
it
he
couldn
’
t
identify
:
flowers
,
chemistries
,
dusts
,
winds
.
"
Then
there
was
that
time
in
New
York
when
I
got
that
blonde
,
what
’
s
her
name
?
—
Ginnie
!
"
cried
Biggs
.
"
That
was
it
!
"
Spender
tightened
in
.
His
hand
began
to
quiver
.
His
eyes
moved
behind
the
thin
,
sparse
lids
.
