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- Рэй Брэдбери
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- Марсианские хроники
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- Стр. 88/287
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Spender
filled
the
streets
with
his
eyes
and
his
mind
.
People
moved
like
blue
vapor
lights
on
the
cobbled
avenues
,
and
there
were
faint
murmurs
of
sound
,
and
odd
animals
scurrying
across
the
gray
-
red
sands
.
Each
window
was
given
a
person
who
leaned
from
it
and
waved
slowly
,
as
if
under
a
timeless
water
,
at
some
moving
form
in
the
fathoms
of
space
below
the
moon
-
silvered
towers
.
Music
was
played
on
some
inner
ear
,
and
Spender
imagined
the
shape
of
such
instruments
to
evoke
such
music
.
The
land
was
haunted
.
"
Hey
!
"
shouted
Biggs
,
standing
tall
,
his
hands
around
his
open
mouth
.
"
Hey
,
you
people
in
the
city
there
,
you
!
"
"
Biggs
!
"
said
the
captain
.
Biggs
quieted
.
They
walked
forward
on
a
tiled
avenue
.
They
were
all
whispering
now
,
for
it
was
like
entering
a
vast
open
library
or
a
mausoleum
in
which
the
wind
lived
and
over
which
the
stars
shone
.
The
captain
spoke
quietly
.
He
wondered
where
the
people
had
gone
,
and
what
they
had
been
,
and
who
their
kings
were
,
and
how
they
had
died
.
And
he
wondered
,
quietly
aloud
,
how
they
had
built
this
city
to
last
the
ages
through
,
and
had
they
ever
come
to
Earth
?
Were
they
ancestors
of
Earth
Men
ten
thousand
years
removed
?
And
had
they
loved
and
hated
similar
loves
and
hates
,
and
done
similar
silly
things
when
silly
things
were
done
?
Nobody
moved
.
The
moons
held
and
froze
them
;
the
wind
beat
slowly
around
them
.
"
Lord
Byron
,
"
said
Jeff
Spender
.
"
Lord
who
?
"
The
captain
turned
and
regarded
him
.
"
Lord
Byron
,
a
nineteenth
-
century
poet
.
He
wrote
a
poem
a
long
time
ago
that
fits
this
city
and
how
the
Martians
must
feel
,
if
there
’
s
anything
left
of
them
to
feel
.
It
might
have
been
written
by
the
last
Martian
poet
.
"
