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- Рэй Брэдбери
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- Марсианские хроники
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- Стр. 114/287
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He
felt
his
rib
case
.
In
thirty
days
,
how
it
had
grown
.
To
take
in
more
air
,
they
would
all
have
to
build
their
lungs
.
Or
plant
more
trees
.
"
That
’
s
what
I
’
m
here
for
,
"
he
said
.
The
fire
popped
.
"
In
school
they
told
a
story
about
Johnny
Appleseed
walking
across
America
planting
apple
trees
.
Well
,
I
’
m
doing
more
.
I
’
m
planting
oaks
,
elms
,
and
maples
,
every
kind
of
tree
,
aspens
and
deodars
and
chestnuts
.
Instead
of
making
just
fruit
for
the
stomach
,
I
’
m
making
air
for
the
lungs
.
When
those
trees
grow
up
some
year
,
think
of
the
oxygen
they
’
ll
make
!
"
He
remembered
his
arrival
on
Mars
.
Like
a
thousand
others
,
he
had
gazed
out
upon
a
still
morning
and
thought
,
How
do
I
fit
here
?
What
will
I
do
?
Is
there
a
job
for
me
?
Then
he
had
fainted
.
Someone
pushed
a
vial
of
ammonia
to
his
nose
and
,
coughing
,
he
came
around
.
"
You
’
ll
be
all
right
,
"
said
the
doctor
.
"
What
happened
?
"
"
The
air
’
s
pretty
thin
.
Some
can
’
t
take
it
.
I
think
you
’
ll
have
to
go
back
to
Earth
.
"
"
No
!
"
He
sat
up
and
almost
immediately
felt
his
eyes
darken
and
Mars
revolve
twice
around
under
him
.
His
nostrils
dilated
and
he
forced
his
lungs
to
drink
in
deep
nothingness
.
"
I
’
ll
be
all
right
.
I
’
ve
got
to
stay
here
!
"
They
let
him
lie
gasping
in
horrid
fishlike
motions
.
And
he
thought
,
Air
,
air
,
air
.
They
’
re
sending
me
back
because
of
air
.
And
he
turned
his
head
to
look
across
the
Martian
fields
and
hills
.
He
brought
them
to
focus
,
and
the
first
thing
he
noticed
was
that
there
were
no
trees
,
no
trees
at
all
,
as
far
as
you
could
look
in
any
direction
.
The
land
was
down
upon
itself
,
a
land
of
black
loam
,
but
nothing
on
it
,
not
even
grass
.
Air
,
he
thought
,
the
thin
stuff
whistling
in
his
nostrils
.
Air
,
air
.
And
on
top
of
hills
,
or
in
their
shadows
,
or
even
by
little
creeks
,
not
a
tree
and
not
a
single
green
blade
of
grass
.
Of
course
!
He
felt
the
answer
came
not
from
his
mind
,
but
his
lungs
and
his
throat
.
And
the
thought
was
like
a
sudden
gust
of
pure
oxygen
,
raising
him
up
.
Trees
and
grass
.
He
looked
down
at
his
hands
and
turned
them
over
.
He
would
plant
trees
and
grass
.
That
would
be
his
job
,
to
fight
against
the
very
thing
that
might
prevent
his
staying
here
.
He
would
have
a
private
horticultural
war
with
Mars
.
There
lay
the
old
soil
,
and
the
plants
of
it
so
ancient
they
had
worn
themselves
out
.
