The one who is waiting for the Bradbury analysis. Ray Bradbury "The One Who Waits"

I live in a well. I am like a smoke living in a well. Or the vapors of a stone throat. I don't move. I'm not doing anything. I'm just waiting. Above I see cold stars - night and morning, I see the sun. And sometimes I sing the old songs of this world, the songs of its youth. How can I tell you who I am if I don't know it myself? No way. I'm just waiting. I am fog, moonlight, I am memory. I am sad and I am old. Sometimes I fall down into a well like rain. The surface of the water is cracked by spider nets in the places where my drops hit it. I wait in cold silence and know that the day will come when I stop waiting.

It's morning now. I hear deafening thunder. I catch the smell of burning coming from afar. I hear the grinding of metal. I am waiting. I'm listening.

- We'll send people to investigate!

The crunch of crystalline sand.

- Mars! That's what he is like. Mars!

- Please, sir!

- Great, great!

The sun is high in the blue sky, its golden rays fill the well, and I float in them like flower pollen - invisible, swirling in a warm glow.

– On behalf of the Government of the Earth, I declare this territory our Martian possessions, intended for equal division between the participating countries.

What are they talking about? I turn around on the sand like a wheel, invisible and serene, golden and tireless.

- What is this? Over there!

- Well!

- Can't be!

- Went! This is really a well.

I feel the warmth approaching. Three objects bend over the mouth of the well, and my coolness rises to meet them.

- Great!

– Real clean water?

- Let's see.

– Someone bring me a laboratory test bottle and some rope!

- This minute!

The sound of running. Return.

- Here you go!

- Lower it down! Slowly!

The glass glitters as it slowly falls down on a rope.

The surface of the water wrinkles gently when the glass touches it, filling inside. I rise with the warm air to the mouth of the well.

- Here! Would you like to test the waters, Regent?

- What a beautiful well! What is one design worth! I wonder when it was built?

- God knows. In the city where we landed yesterday, Smith said that there has been no life on Mars for ten thousand years.

- Incredible!

- Well, Regent? Like water?

- Clean as glass. Should I pour a glass?

The sound of water pouring in the sun. I dance in the air like dust, like thin twigs in the light breeze.

-What's wrong with you, Jones?

- Don't know. I had a terrible headache. Somehow suddenly.

-Have you drunk water?

- No, I didn’t have time. Not because of this. I was just bending over the well, and my head seemed to split. It's better now.

Now I know who I am.

My name is Stephen Leonard Jones, I'm twenty-five years old, and I just arrived here on a rocket from a planet called Earth. I am now standing on the planet Mars with my good friends Regent and Shaw at an old well.

I look at my golden fingers, tanned and strong. I see my long legs, my silver uniform and my friends.

- Jones, what's wrong with you? - they ask.

“It’s okay,” I say, looking at them. - Everything is fine with me.

The food is delicious. For ten thousand years I have forgotten what food tastes like. It feels pleasant on the tongue, and the wine I wash it down with warms me up. I listen to the sound of voices. I make up words that I don’t understand and yet in a strange way I understand. I taste the air.

-What's happening to you, Jones?

I tilt my head—my head—to the side and place my hands on the table, in which I hold the silver eating utensils. I feel everything, touch everything.

– What do you mean by this? - I answer with a new acquisition - a voice.

“You’re breathing somehow ridiculously—you’re wheezing,” says another of them.

I find the exact answer and say:

- I'm probably getting sick. Cold.

– Don’t forget to check with the doctor!

I nod my head and find that nodding my head feels good. After ten thousand years, many things are pleasant. It is pleasant to inhale the air, to feel how the body is warmed and the warmth of the sun penetrates deeper and deeper, it is pleasant to feel the spinal column and the intricate plexus of bones hidden in the thickness of the warmed flesh, it is pleasant to distinguish sounds coming much clearer and closer than in the stone depths of the well. I sit spellbound.

- Jones, wake up! Get it over with! Need to go!

“Okay,” I say, hypnotized by how easily, like moisture on the tongue, the words are formed, how slowly and gracefully they break and float.

I'm walking, and I'm glad to go. I am tall and the ground is far beneath my feet. It's like I'm on top of a high cliff and I'm glad about it.

The Regent stands by a stone well and looks into it. The others, talking quietly, went to their silver ship.

I feel my hand right down to my fingertips, I feel my lips smiling.

“The well is deep,” I say.

- Yes, deep.

“It’s called the Well of the Soul.”

The Regent raises his head and looks at me.

- How do you know?

– Do you think it doesn’t look like the Well of the Soul?

“I’ve never heard of such a well.”

“This is the place where those who wait live - those who were once alive, but now only wait and wait,” I answer, touching his hand.

Midday heat. The sand burns like fire, the ship burns with a silver flame, the heat is pleasant to me. I hear the sound of my own steps on the hard sand, the sounds of the wind walking through the valleys scorched by the sun. I catch a smell: the rocket casing is boiling under the sun. I'm standing right under the exit hatch.

-Where is Regent? - someone asks.

- I saw him at the well.

One man runs to the well. I start to tremble. I am trembling with a beautiful trembling shiver, coming from somewhere deep, the trembling is getting stronger. And for the first time I hear it - a voice coming, as if from a well, from the depths - a thin and frightened voice: Let me go, let me go! I feel: something is trying to free itself, slamming doors in the labyrinth of passages, rushing down and up dark corridors, screaming and responding to its own scream.

- The Regent fell into the well!

People are running, all five of them! I run with them, I feel bad, the trembling turns into a violent beating.

- He fell into it! Jones, you were with him! Did you see what happened? Jones! Well, speak up, Jones!

- Jones, what's wrong with you?

I fall to my knees, the trembling has completely finished me off.

- He feels bad! Here! Help me lift it!

- It's all the sun.

“No, it’s not the sun,” I mutter.

They lay me down on the sand, spasms roll through my body in waves like earthquakes, a voice from the depths shouts: It’s John s, it’s me, it’s not him, it’s not him, don’t believe him, let me out, you let me in! I see figures hunched over me, my eyelids fluttering, opening and closing. People are touching my wrist.

- My heart stops.

I close my eyes. The screams die down. The shaking stops.

And I soar up, as if in a cold well, I am free again.

“He died,” someone says.

- Jones died.

- From what?

- It seems from shock.

- What other shock? - I ask. Now my name is Sessions, my lips move firmly and decisively, I am the captain of this ship, the boss of all these people. I stand among them and look at the body cooling on the sand. Then suddenly I grab my head with my hands.

-What happened, captain?

- Nothing! - I say. - I have a headache. I'll get back to normal now. “Well,” I whisper, “everything is normal again.”

- You should get out of the sun, sir!

“Yes,” I agree, looking at Jones lying down. “We shouldn’t have come here.” Mars is rejecting us.

We carry the body into the rocket, and immediately some new voice from the depths again calls out to be released.

- For help! For help! - comes from the wet insides of my body. - For help! – echoes and rolls through the blood-red vessels.

This time the trembling hits me much earlier. And it's harder for me to contain it.

- Captain, you better get out of the sun! You look unhealthy, sir!

- Fine! - I say and shout out: “Help!”

-What did you say, sir?

- I said nothing.

– You said: “Help”, sir!

“Really, Matthews?” Did I really say that?

I am laid in the shadow cast by the ship: inside, in the deep catacombs of the skeleton, in the dark red rushes of blood, someone screams, my hands twitch, my withered mouth splits in two, my nostrils widen, my eyes roll out of their sockets. For help! Help! Help! Let me out! No, no, don't!

- No need! - I repeat.

-What are you talking about, sir?

- Do not pay attention! - I say. “I have to free myself,” and I cover my mouth with my hand.

- Sir, what is happening to you? Matthews shouts urgently. I shout to them:

- Everyone aboard the ship! Everything, everything! Return to Earth! Immediately!

I have a pistol in my hand. I pick it up.

- Do not shoot!

Explosion! Flickering shadows. The scream is cut off. The whistling sound of falling.

In ten thousand years. How good it is to die. How wonderful is the sudden coolness and relaxation. I am like a hand in a glove, a deliciously cool glove in hot sand. How beautiful is the all-encompassing black peace of oblivion! However, we must not hesitate.

I live in a well. I live in a well, like a mist. Like steam in a stone throat. I'm motionless. I do nothing but wait. Above I see the cold night and morning stars, I see the sun. And sometimes I sing the ancient songs of this world, songs from the times of his youth. How can I say what I am when I don’t know myself? There's no way I can. I'm just waiting. I am fog, I am moonlight and memory. I'm sad and old. Sometimes I fall like rain into a well, and where my quick drops splash, the water trembles and becomes covered with a patterned web. I wait in the cool silence, and the day will come when I won't have to wait anymore.

It's morning now. I hear powerful thunder. I smell fire in the distance. I hear the grinding of metal. I'm waiting. I am a rumor.

Let people out.

The crunch of grains of sand.

Where is the flag?

Here, sir.

Good good.

The sun stands high in the blue sky, its golden rays fill the well, and I hang there, an invisible cloud in the warm light.

In the name of the government of the Earth, I declare this planet a Martian Territory, equally divided among nations.

What they're saying? I spin in the rays of the sun like a wheel, invisible and leisurely, golden and tireless.

What is this here?

Well!

Come on? Exactly!

Something warm is approaching. Three objects lean over the mouth of the well, and my coolness rises towards them.

Do you think the water is good there?

Hey, someone bring me a bottle and some twine.

I'll bring.

The sound of running steps. Retiring. Now approaching.

We lower it. Lightly.

The bottle, glistening, slowly falls on the twine. The water made small ripples when the bottle touched it and filled. I rise in the warm air to the mouth of the well.

Here. Would you like to taste this water, Regent?

Let's.

What a wonderful well! Take a look at how it's built.

How old do you think he is?

God knows. When we sat down in that other city yesterday, Smith said that there had been no life on Mars for ten thousand years.

Just think about it!

Well, Regent, how's the water?

Pure crystal. Have a glass.

The splash of water in the sun. Now I'm floating on brownish dust in a light breeze.

What's the matter, Jones?

Don't know. I had a terrible headache. Out of the blue.

Haven't you drunk this water yet?

No. It's not about her. I just bent over the well, and my head suddenly began to pound. But it's better now.

Now I know who I am.

My name is Stephen Leonard Jones, I'm twenty-five years old, and I've just arrived in a rocket from a planet called Earth. And now I’m standing with my good friends Regent and Shaw near an old well on the planet Mars.

I look at my golden fingers, tanned and strong, I look at my long legs and silver uniform, I look at my friends.

What happened, Jones? - they ask.

“Nothing,” I say, looking at them, “absolutely nothing.”

How delicious the food is! I haven't eaten for ten thousand years. The food gently caresses my tongue, and the wine I wash it down with warms me. I listen to voices. I make up words that I don’t understand and yet somehow I understand. I taste the air.

What's the matter, Jones?

I tilt my head to the side and lower my hands that hold the silver container with food. All sensations are available to me.

“You’re breathing strangely, with a cough,” says the second person.

“Maybe I’m starting to have a slight cold,” I declare.

Then you go to the doctor and get examined.

I nod my head, and it feels good to nod. It's nice to do something after ten thousand years. It's nice to breathe in the air and feel the sun warming your flesh, deeper and deeper. It’s nice to feel hard bone, a thin skeleton in warmed flesh, it’s nice to hear sounds much clearer, much closer than there, in the stone depths of the well. I sit spellbound.

Wake up, Jones. Get up. Need to go.

“Yes,” I answer, fascinated by how the word is born on the tongue, how it slowly and beautifully falls into the air.

I'm coming. And it's nice to go. I straighten up and look at the ground. It is far from the eyes and from the head. It's like living on a beautiful cliff.

The Regent stands by a stone well, looking into it. The others walked away, muttering something, towards the silver ship from which they had emerged.

I feel my fingers and feel a smile on my lips.

“It’s deep,” I say.

It's called the Well of Souls.

The Regent raises his head and looks at me. - How did you know that?

Isn't it similar?

I've never heard of the Well of Souls before.

This is the place where all those who wait, those who previously had flesh, wait and wait endlessly,” I say, touching his hand.

The sand is fire, and the ship is silver fire in the heat of the day. And it’s nice to feel the heat. The sound of my steps on hard sand. I'm listening to. The sound of the wind and the roar of the sun burning the valleys. I inhale the smell of a rocket boiling at noon. I'm standing under the hatch.

Where's Regent? - someone asks.

“I saw him at the well,” I answer.

One of them runs to the well.

I start to tremble. The quiet shaking trembling hidden deep inside is becoming stronger. And for the first time I hear him, as if he was buried with me in a well: deep inside a voice screams, thin and frightened. A voice screams: “Let me go, let me go,” and it feels like something is breaking free; doors slam in the maze, something runs along dark corridors and passages, screams are heard.

Regent in the well!

People are running. I run with them, but I feel sick and the trembling is literally raging.

He probably fell. Jones, you were here with him. You've seen? Jones? Well, speak up, boy!

What's the matter, Jones?

I fall to my knees. How much I'm shaking!

He is sick. Hey, help me lift him up.

This is the Sun.

No,” I mutter, “not the sun.”

They lay me on my back; the cramps are like tremors, and a voice hidden deep inside me screams: “It’s Jones, it’s me, it’s not him, it’s not him, don’t believe him, let me out, let me out!” And I look up at the bowed figures and blink. They touch my wrists.

His heart is racing.

I close my eyes. The screams subside. The shaking stops. Freed, I rise as if in a cool well.

“He’s dead,” someone says.

Jones died.

Looks like it's from shock.

What shock? - I ask. My name is Sessions, my lips can hardly move, and I am the captain of these people. I stand among them and look down at the body that lies and cools on the sand. I grab my head with both hands.

Captain!

Nothing! - I shout. “It’s just a headache.” Everything will be OK.

“Well, well,” I whisper. “Everything is fine now.”

We'd better go into the shadows, sir.

Yes,” I say, looking down at Jones. “We didn’t have to come: Mars doesn’t want us.”

We carry the body to the ship, and deep inside me a new voice screams, demanding freedom.

“Help, help...” sounds somewhere far away, in wet flesh. “Help, help...” - the words of prayer echo like red ghosts.

This time the shaking starts much earlier. I can't control myself like before.

Captain, you'd better move into the shadows. You don't look good, sir.

Yes,” I say. “Help,” I say.

What, sir?

I said nothing.

You said "help", sir.

I said? Matthews, did I say?

The body is laid out in the shadow of the rocket, and the voice screams in the depths of the water-flooded catacombs of bones and crimson streams. My hands are cramping. My gaping mouth is dry. My nostrils flare. My eyes roll back into my head. “Help, help, oh, help! No, no, no, let me out, let me out!”

No need, I say.

What, sir?

“Nothing,” I say. “I have to free myself,” I say, covering my mouth with my hand.

How so, sir? - Matthews shouts.

Everyone - into the rocket! - I scream. - Return to Earth!

I have a gun in my hands. I pick it up.

Cotton. Running shadows. The scream ends. You can hear the whistle with which you rush through space.

How nice it is to die after ten thousand years. How nice it is to feel this desired coolness, this relaxation. How wonderful it is to feel like a hand in a glove that stretches out and becomes wonderfully cold on the hot sand. Oh, this peace, this goodness of the gathering darkness of death. But it cannot be extended.

Crack. Click.

God Almighty, he committed suicide! - I scream and open my eyes. And I see the captain. He lies leaning against the rocket; the head is split open by a bullet, the eyes are bulging, the tongue protrudes between the white teeth. Blood is gushing from my head. I lean over him and touch him.

Fool! - I say. “Why did he do this?”

The boys are terrified. They stand over two dead men and, turning their heads, look at the Martian sands and a distant well, where Regent lies under the water.

A wheeze escapes their dry lips, they whine like children in a nightmare.

They turn to me.

After a long silence, one of them says:

So you're the captain now, Matthews.

“I know,” I say slowly.

There are only six of us left.

God, how quickly everything happened!

I don't want to stay here. Let's get away!

The guys are making noise. I go up and touch each of them. I'm so confident in myself that I want to sing.

Listen, I say and touch their elbows, shoulders or hands.

We fall silent.

We are one.

“No, no, no, no, no, no!” - inner voices scream, they are deep, in the prisons of our bodies.

We look at each other. We are Samuel Matthews, Charles Evans, Forrest Cole, Raymond Moses, William Spaulding and John Summers, and we are silent. We just look at each other, at our pale faces and shaking hands.

We turn as one and look into the well.

So... - we say.

Our feet step on the sand, and it feels as if a huge twelve-fingered palm is desperately clinging to the warm seabed.

We lean over the well until we lose our balance and fall one by one into the mouth, flying through the cool darkness down into the cold waters.

The sun is setting. The stars are spinning in the night sky. There, in the distance, a light flickers. Another rocket approaches, streaking space with a red dotted line.

I live in a well. I live in a well, like a mist. Like steam in a stone throat. Above I see the cold night and morning stars, I see the sun. And sometimes I sing the ancient songs of this world, songs from the times of his youth. How can I say what I am when I don’t know myself? There's no way I can.

I'm just waiting.

Translated from English by D. Novikov and A. Sharov

I live in a well. I am like a smoke living in a well. Or the vapors of a stone throat. I don't move. I'm not doing anything. I'm just waiting. Above I see cold stars - night and morning, I see the sun. And sometimes I sing the old songs of this world, the songs of its youth. How can I tell you who I am if I don't know it myself? No way. I'm just waiting. I am fog, moonlight, I am memory. I'm sad and I'm old. Sometimes I fall down into a well like rain. The surface of the water is cracked by spider nets in the places where my drops hit it. I wait in cold silence and know that the day will come when I stop waiting.

It's morning now. I hear deafening thunder. I catch the smell of burning coming from afar. I hear the grinding of metal. I am waiting. I'm listening.

Let's send people to investigate!

The crunch of crystalline sand.

Mars! That's what he is like. Mars!

Please sir!

Great, great!

The sun is high in the blue sky, its golden rays fill the well, and I float in them like flower pollen - invisible, swirling in a warm glow.

On behalf of the Government of the Earth, I declare this territory our Martian possessions, intended for equal division between the participating countries.

What are they talking about? I turn around on the sand like a wheel, invisible and serene, golden and tireless.

What is this? Over there!

Well!

Can't be!

Went! This is really a well.

I feel the warmth approaching. Three objects bend over the mouth of the well, and my coolness rises to meet them.

Great!

Real clean water?

Let's see.

Someone bring me a lab test bottle and some rope!

This minute!

The sound of running. Return.

Here you go!

Lower it down! Slowly!

The glass glitters as it slowly falls down on a rope.

The surface of the water wrinkles gently when the glass touches it, filling inside. I rise with the warm air to the mouth of the well.

Here! Would you like to test the waters, Regent?

What a beautiful well! What is one design worth! I wonder when it was built?

God knows. In the city where we landed yesterday, Smith said that there has been no life on Mars for ten thousand years.

Incredible!

So, Regent? Like water?

Clean as glass. Should I pour a glass?

The sound of water pouring in the sun. I dance in the air like dust, like thin twigs in the light breeze.

What's wrong with you, Jones?

Don't know. I had a terrible headache. Somehow suddenly.

Did you drink water?

No, I didn't have time. Not because of this. I was just bending over the well, and my head seemed to split. It's better now.

Now I know who I am.

My name is Stephen Leonard Jones, I'm twenty-five years old, and I just arrived here on a rocket from a planet called Earth. I am now standing on the planet Mars with my good friends Regent and Shaw at an old well.

I look at my golden fingers, tanned and strong. I see my long legs, my silver uniform and my friends.

Jones, what's wrong with you? - they ask.

“It’s okay,” I say, looking at them. - Everything is fine with me.

The food is delicious. For ten thousand years I have forgotten what food tastes like. It feels pleasant on the tongue, and the wine I wash it down with warms me up. I listen to the sound of voices. I make up words that I don’t understand and yet in a strange way I understand. I taste the air.

What's going on with you, Jones?

I tilt my head—my head—to the side and place my hands on the table, in which I hold the silver eating utensils. I feel everything, touch everything.

What do you mean by this? - I answer with a new acquisition - a voice.

“You’re breathing somehow ridiculously—you’re wheezing,” says another of them.

I find the exact answer and say:

I'm probably getting sick. Cold.

Don't forget to check with your doctor!

I nod my head and find that nodding my head feels good. After ten thousand years, many things are pleasant. It is pleasant to inhale the air, to feel how the body is warmed and the warmth of the sun penetrates deeper and deeper, it is pleasant to feel the spinal column and the intricate plexus of bones hidden in the thickness of the warmed flesh, it is pleasant to distinguish sounds coming much clearer and closer than in the stone depths of the well. I sit spellbound.

Jones, wake up! Get it over with! Need to go!

“Okay,” I say, hypnotized by how easily, like moisture on the tongue, the words are formed, how slowly and gracefully they break and float.

I'm walking, and I'm glad to go. I am tall and the ground is far beneath my feet. It's like I'm on top of a high cliff and I'm glad about it.

The Regent stands by a stone well and looks into it. The others, talking quietly, went to their silver ship.

I feel my hand right down to my fingertips, I feel my lips smiling.

The well is deep, I say.

Yes, deep.

It's called the Well of the Soul.

The Regent raises his head and looks at me.

How do you know?

Do you think it doesn't look like the Well of Souls?

I've never heard of such a well.

This is the place where those who wait live - those who were once alive, and now only wait and wait,” I answer, touching his hand.

Midday heat. The sand burns like fire, the ship burns with a silver flame, the heat is pleasant to me. I hear the sound of my own steps on the hard sand, the sounds of the wind walking through the valleys scorched by the sun. I catch a smell: the rocket casing is boiling under the sun. I'm standing right under the exit hatch.

Where's Regent? - someone asks.

I saw him at the well.

One man runs to the well. I start to tremble. I am trembling with a beautiful trembling shiver, coming from somewhere deep, the trembling is getting stronger. And for the first time I hear it - a voice coming, as if from a well, from the depths - a thin and frightened voice: Let me go, let me go! I feel: something is trying to free itself, slamming doors in the labyrinth of passages, rushing down and up dark corridors, screaming and responding to its own scream.

The Regent fell into the well!

People are running, all five of them! I run with them, I feel bad, the trembling turns into a violent beating.

He fell into it! Jones, you were with him! Did you see what happened? Jones! Well, speak up, Jones!

Jones, what's wrong with you?

I fall to my knees, the trembling has completely finished me off.

He feels bad! Here! Help me lift it!

It's all the sun.

No, it’s not the sun, I mutter.

They lay me down on the sand, spasms roll through my body in waves like earthquakes, a voice from the depths shouts: It’s John s, it’s me, it’s not him, it’s not him, don’t believe him, let me out, you let me in! I see figures hunched over me, my eyelids fluttering, opening and closing. People are touching my wrist.

The heart stops.

I close my eyes. The screams die down. The shaking stops.

And I soar up, as if in a cold well, I am free again.

He died, someone says.

Jones died.

From what?

It seems from shock.

What other shock? - I ask. Now my name is Sessions, my lips move firmly and decisively, I am the captain of this ship, the boss of all these people. I stand among them and look at the body cooling on the sand. Then suddenly I grab my head with my hands.

What happened, captain?

Nothing! - I say. - I have a headache. I'll get back to normal now. Well, - I whisper, - everything is normal again.

You should get out of the sunshine, sir!

Yes,” I agree, looking at Jones lying down. - We shouldn't have come here. Mars is rejecting us.

We carry the body into the rocket, and immediately some new voice from the depths again calls out to be released.

For help! For help! - comes from the wet insides of my body. - For help! - echoes and rolls through the blood-red vessels.

This time the trembling hits me much earlier. And it's harder for me to contain it.

Captain, you better get out of the sun! You look unhealthy, sir!

Fine! - I say and shout out: - Help!

What did you say, sir?

I said nothing.

You said: "Help", sir!

Really, Matthews? Did I really say that?

I am laid in the shadow cast by the ship: inside, in the deep catacombs of the skeleton, in the dark red rushes of blood, someone screams, my hands twitch, my withered mouth splits in two, my nostrils widen, my eyes roll out of their sockets. For help! Help! Help! Let me out! No, no, don't!

No need! - I repeat.

What are you talking about, sir?

Do not pay attention! - I say. “I have to free myself,” and I cover my mouth with my hand.

Sir, what's happening to you? Matthews shouts urgently. I shout to them:

Everyone aboard the ship! Everything, everything! Return to Earth! Immediately!

I have a pistol in my hand. I pick it up.

Do not shoot!

Explosion! Flickering shadows. The scream is cut off. The whistling sound of falling.

In ten thousand years. How good it is to die. How wonderful is the sudden coolness and relaxation. I am like a hand in a glove, a deliciously cool glove in hot sand. How beautiful is the all-encompassing black peace of oblivion! However, we must not hesitate.

Crack, click!

My God, he shot himself! - I scream, opening my eyes. The captain sits leaning against the side, his skull split by a bullet, his eyes wide, his tongue hanging out between two rows of white teeth. Blood is gushing from my head. I lean over and touch him.

Stupid, I say. - Why did he do this?

People are terrified. They stand over two corpses and turn their heads, looking around at the Martian sands and a distant well, in the deep waters of which Regent’s body sways. Wheezes and sobs escape from dry lips - they are like children who do not accept a bad dream.

People turn to me.

After a pause one says:

Now, Matthews, you are the captain.

“I know,” I answer leisurely.

There are only six of us left.

God, everything happened so quickly!

I do not want it! We need to get out immediately!

People started shouting. I go up to everyone and touch them - this time my confidence is deep, she just sings with delight.

Listen! - I say and touch their elbows, arms, palms.

We all fall silent.

We are together, we are one.

No, no, no, no, no, no! - inner voices shout from the depths, from the prisons of their bodies.

We look at each other. We are Samuel Matthews, Raymond Moses, William Spaulding, Charles Evans, Forrest Cole and Joey Summers; We silently look at each other: our faces are pale, our hands are shaking.

Then, as one, we turn towards the well.

It's time, we say.

Our feet carry us along the sand, from the outside it would seem as if this giant twelve-fingered palm is moving along the hot seabed, fingering its fingers.

Bending over the well, we look into it. And we see six faces: they look at us from the cold depths.

Bending lower and losing our balance, we fall one after another into the mouth, into the cool darkness, into the cold waters of the well.

The sun is setting. The stars move slowly in a circle. A ray of light flashes among them far away. Another spaceship is approaching, leaving a red trail behind it.

I live in a well. I am like a smoke living in a well. Or the vapors of a stone throat. Above I see cold stars - night and morning, I see the sun. And sometimes I sing the old songs of this world, the songs of its youth. How can I tell you who I am if I don't know it myself? No way. I'm just waiting.

I live in a well. I live like smoke in the well. Like vapor in a stone throat. I don't move. I don't do anything but wait. Overhead I see the cold stars of night and morning, and I see the sun. And sometimes I sing old songs of this world when it was young. How can I tell you what I am when I don’t know? I cannot. I am simply waiting. I am mist and moonlight and memory. I am sad and I am old. Sometimes I fall like rain into the well. I wait in cool silence and there will be a day when I no longer wait.
Now it is morning. I hear a great thunder. I smell fire from a distance. I hear a metal crashing. I wait. I listen. Voices. Far away.
“All right!”
One voice. An alien voice. An alien tongue I cannot know. No word is familiar. I listen.
“Mars! So this is it!”
“Where’s the flag?”
“Here, sir.”
“Good, good.”
The sun is high in the blue sky and its golden rays fill the well and I hang like a flower pollen, invisible and misting in the warm light.
Voices.

“In the name of the Government of Earth, I proclaim this to be the Martian Territory, to be equally divided among the member nations.”
What are they saying? I turn in the sun, like a wheel, invisible and lazy, golden and tireless.
“What's over here?”
“Well done!”
“No!”
“Come on. Yes!”
The approach of warmth. Three objects bend over the well, and my coolness rises to the objects.
“Great!”
“Think it’s good water?”
“We'll see.”
“Someone get a lab test bottle and a drop line.”
“I will!”
A sound of running. The return.
“Here we are.”
I wait.
“Let it down. Easy.”
Glass shines, above; the water ripples softly as the glass touches and fills.
“Here we are.” Do you want to test this water, Regent?”
“Let's have it.”
“What a beautiful well. Look at it. How old do you think it is?”
“God knows.” When we landed in that other town yesterday Smith said there hasn’t been life on Mars in ten thousand years.” “Imagine.”
“How is it, Regent? The water.”
“Pure as silver. Have a glass.”
The sound of water in the hot sunlight.
Now I hover like a dust upon the soft wind.
“What’s the matter, Jones?”
“I don't know. Got a terrible headache. All of a sudden.”
“Did you drink the water yet?”
“No, I haven’t. It's not that. I was just bending over the well and all of a sudden my head split. I feel better now.”
Now I know who I am.
My name is Stephen Leonard Jones and I am twenty-five years old and I have just come in a rocket from a planet called Earth and I am standing with my good friends Regent and Shaw by an old well on the planet Mars.
I look down at my golden fingers, tan and strong. I look at my long legs and at my silver uniform and at my friends.
“What's wrong, Jones?” they say.
“Nothing,” I say, looking at them.
“Nothing at all.”
The food is good. It has been ten thousand years since food. It touches the tongue in a fine way and the wine with the food is warming. I listen to the sound of voices. I make words that I do not understand but somehow understand. I test the air.
“What’s the matter, Jones?”
“What do you mean?” this voice, this new thing of mine, says.
“You keep breathing funny,” says the other man.
“Maybe I’ve caught cold.”
“Check with the doctor later.”
I nod my head and it is good to nod. It is good to do several things after ten thousand years. It is good to breathe the air and it is good to feel the sun. I feel happy.
“Come on, Jones! We’ve got to move!”
“Yes,” I say. I walk and it is good walking.
I stand high and it is a long way to the ground when I look down from my eyes and my head.
It is like living on a fine hill and being happy there.
Regent stands by the stone well, looking down. The others have gone to the silver ship from which they came.
I feel the fingers of my hand and the smile of my mouth.
“It's deep,” I say.
“Yes.”
“It is called a Soul Well.”
Regent raises his head and looks at me. “How do you know that?”
“Doesn’t it look like one?”
“I never heard of a Soul Well.”
“A place where waiting things, things that once had flesh, wait and wait,” I say, touching his arm.
The sand is fire and the ship is silver fire in the hotness of the day and the heat is good to feel. The sound of my feet in the hard sand. I listen. The sound of the wind and the sun burning the valleys. I smell the smell of the rocket boiling in the noon. I stand below the port.
“Where's Regent?” someone says.
“I saw him by the well,” I reply.
One of them runs towards the well. I am beginning to tremble. And for the first time I hear it, as if it too were hidden in a well. A voice calling deep in me, tiny and afraid. And the voice cries, Let me go, let me go, and there is a feeling as if something is trying to get free, crying and screaming.
“Regent's in the good!”
The men are running, all five of them. I run with them but now I am sick and the trembling is strong.
“He must have fallen. Jones, you were here with him. Did you see? Jones? Well, speak up, man.”
“What's wrong, Jones?”
I fall to my knees, the trembling is so bad. “He's sick. Here, help me with him.”
“The sun.”
“No, not the sun,” I say.
The deep hidden voice in me cries, This is me, that’s not him, that’s not him, don’t believe him, let me out, let me out!
They touch my wrists.
“His heart is acting up.”
I close my eyes. The screaming stops. The trembling stops. I rise, as in a cool well, released.
“He’s dead,” says someone.
“Jones is dead.”
“From what?”
“Shock, it looks like.”
“What kind of shock?” I say, and my name is Sessions, and I am the captain of these men. I stand among them and I am looking down at a body which lies cooling on the sands. I clap both hands to my head. “Captain!”
“It’s nothing,” I say. “Just a headache. I'll be all right. “
“We'd better get out of the sun, sir.”
“Yes,” I say, looking down at Jones. “We should never have come. Mars doesn’t want us.”
We carry the body back to the rocket with us, and a new voice is calling deep in me to be let out.
Help, help. Deep in my body. Help, help, tiny and afraid.
The trembling starts much sooner this time.
“Captain, you’d better get in out of the sun, you don’t look too well, sir.”
“Yes,” I say. “Help,” I say.
“What, sir?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said ‘Help’, sir.”
“Did I, Matthews, did I?”
The body is laid out in the shadow of the rocket and the deep hidden voice, in me screams. My hands tremble. My eyes roll. Help, help, oh help, don’t, don’t, let me out, don’t, don’t.
“Don't,” I say.
“What, sir?”
“Never mind,” I say. “I’ve got to get free,” I say. I clap my hand to my mouth.
“How’s that, sir?” cries Matthews.
“Get inside, all of you, go back to Earth!” I shout.
A gun is in my hand. I lift it.
“Don’t, sir!”
An explosion. Shadows run. The screaming stops. After ten thousand years, how good to die. How good to feel the sudden coolness, the relaxation. How good to be like a hand within a glove that grows wonderfully cold in the hot sand. But one cannot linger on.
“Good God, he’s killed himself!” I cry, and open my eyes wide, and there is the captain lying against the rocket… Blood runs from his head. I bend to him and touch him. “The fool,” I say. “Why did he do that?”
The men are horrified. They stand over the two dead men and turn their heads to see the Martian sands and the distant well where the Regent lies in deep waters.
The men turn to me.
After a long while, one of them says, “That makes you captain, Matthews.”
“I know,” I say slowly.
“Only six of us left.”
“Good God, it happened so quickly!”
“I don’t want to stay here, let’s get out!”
“Listen,” I say, and touch their elbows or their arms or their hands.
We all fall silent.
We are one.
No, no, no, no, no, no! Inner voices crying, deep down.
We are looking at each other. We are Samuel Matthews and Raymond Moses and William Spaulding and Charles Evans and Forrest Cole and John Sumers, and we say nothing but look upon each other and our white faces and shaking hands.
We turn, as one, and look at the well.
“Now,” we say.
No, no, six voices scream, hidden deep down forever.
Our feet walk in the sand and it is as if a great hand with twelve fingers were moving across the hot sea bottom.
We bend to the well, looking down. From the cool depths six faces look back up at us.
One by one we bend until our balance is gone, and one by one drop into the cold waters.
The sun sets. The stars wheel upon the night sky. Far out, there is a wink of light. Another rocket coming, leaving red marks on space.
I live in a well. I live like smoke in a well. Like vapor in a stone throat. Overhead I see the cold star of night and morning, and I see the sun. And sometimes I sing old songs of this world when it was young. How can I tell you what I am when even I don’t know? I cannot.
I am simply waiting.

I live in a well. I live like smoke in a well. Like steam in a stone throat. I'm not moving. I do nothing but wait. Overhead I see cold stars at night and in the morning, and I see the sun. And sometimes I sing old songs about this world when it was young. How can I tell you what I am when I don't know? I can't. I'm just waiting. I am fog and moonlight and memory. I'm sad and I'm old. Sometimes I fall like rain into a well. I wait in cool silence, and the day will come when I won't wait anymore.
It's morning now. I hear thunder. I smell fire. I hear the crash of metal. I'm waiting. I'm listening to. Vote. Far.
"Great!"
One vote. Foreign voice. I don't know a foreign language. Not a single familiar word. I'm listening to.
"Mars! It is he!"
"Where is the flag?"
"Here you go, sir."
"Good good".
The sun is high in the blue sky and its golden rays fill the well and I am like flower pollen, invisible and clouded in the warm light.
Vote.
"In the name of the government of Earth, I declare that these Martian territories are equally divided among the member countries."
What they're saying? I turned towards the sun like a wheel, invisible and lazy, golden and tireless.
"What's here?"
"Well".
"No!"
“Stop it. Yes!"
Warmth approaching. Three objects leaned over the well, and my coolness rose towards the objects.
"Big!"
“Do you think the water is good?”
"Let's see".
“Someone get me a lab test bottle and some rope.”
"I'll bring".
The sound of running. Return.
"Here".
I'm waiting.
“Put it down. Take it easy."
The glass glitters above. Ripples appeared in the water when the glass touched the surface.
"Here. Do you want to test this water, Regent?”
"Let's".
“What a beautiful well. Look at him. How old do you think he is?”
"God knows. When we landed in that other city yesterday, Smith said there had been no life on Mars for ten thousand years."
"Imagine".
“How is she, Regent? Water".
“Pure as silver. Have a drink."
The sound of water in hot sunlight.
Now I float in the air like a grain of sand in a soft wind.
"What's the matter, Jones?"
"I don't know. Terrible headache. Suddenly".
“Have you drunk the water yet?”
"No. Not this. I just leaned over the well and suddenly my head felt like it was splitting open. I feel better now."
Now I know who I am.
My name is Stephen Leonard Jones and I am twenty-five years old and I have just arrived on a rocket from a planet called Earth and I am standing with my good friends Regent and Shaw at an old well on the planet Mars.
I look at my golden fingers, tanned and strong. I look at my long legs and my silver uniform and my friends.
“What happened, Jones?” they say.
“Nothing,” I say, looking at them.
"Nothing at all."
The food is good. Ten thousand years have passed since the meal. She touches the tongue, and the wine and food warms her. I listen to the sound of voices. I say words that I don't understand, but somehow I understand. I taste the air.
"What's the matter, Jones?"
“What do you mean?”, this voice, this is my new thing, said.
“Your breathing seems strange,” said the other man.
“Maybe I have a cold.”
“See your doctor later.”
I nod my head, and it's good to nod. It's great to do some things after ten thousand years. It's great to breathe the air and feel the sun. I feel happy.
“Come on, Jones! We must move!
“Yes,” I say. I'm walking, and walking is great.
I stand high and the ground is far away when I look down from the level of my eyes and head. It's like living on a beautiful mountain and being happy there.
The Regent stands by a stone well, looking down. The others went to the silver ship they came from.
I feel the fingers of my hand and a smile on my mouth.
“It's deep,” I say.
"Yes".
"It's called the Well of Souls."
The Regent raised his head and looked at me.
"How did you know that?"
"Isn't he similar?"
"I've never heard of the Well of Souls."
“The place where you wait to come to life one day, you wait and wait,” I say, touching his hand.
Sand is fire, and the ship is silver fire on a hot day and it’s good to feel the heat. The sound of my feet on hard sand. I'm listening to. The sound of the wind and the sun burns the valleys. I smell a rocket boiling at noon. I'm standing under the hatch.
“Where is the Regent?” someone said.
“I saw him at the well,” I answered.
One of them ran to the well. I started to tremble. And the first time I heard it, it was as if it was also hidden in the well. The voice calling from deep within me is small and scared. And a voice screams, “Let me go, let me go,” and it feels like something is trying to free itself, screaming and crying.
"The Regent is in the well!"
The men ran, all five of them. I ran with them, but now I am sick and trembling violently.
“He must have fallen. Jones, you were here with him. You've seen? Jones? Well, speak up, man."
"What happened, Jones?"
I fall to my knees, shaking violently. "He is sick. Hey, help me with it."
"Sun".
“No, not the sun,” I say.
A voice hidden deep within me screamed: “It’s me, it’s not him, don’t believe him, let me out, let me out!”
They touch my wrist.
"His heart stops."
I close my eyes. The screams stop. The shaking stops. I get up, as if in a cool well, liberated.
“He's dead,” someone says.
"Jones is dead."
"From what?"
“Looks like shock.”
“What a shock?” I say, and my name is Sessins and I am the captain of these men. I stand among them and I look at the body that is cooling on the sand. I grab my head with both hands.
"Captain!"
“Nothing,” I say, “Just a headache.” I'll be fine".
"We'd better get out of the sun, sir."
“Yes,” I say, looking at Jones. “We shouldn't have come. Mars doesn't want us."
We carried the body to the rocket and a new voice called deep within me to be released.
Help, help. Deep in my body. Help, help, tiny and scared.
This time the trembling started much earlier.
"Captain, you better get out of the sun, you don't look too good, sir."
“Yes,” I say. “Help,” I say.
"What, sir?"
"I said nothing".
“You said help, sir.”
"Am I, Matthews, am I?"
The body was laid in the shadow of the rocket and a deeply hidden voice inside me screamed. My hands are shaking. My eyes roll back into my head. Help, help, oh help, no, no, let me out, no, no.
“No,” I say.
"What, sir?"
“Nothing important,” I say. “I have to free myself,” I say. I put my hand to my mouth.
“How is it, sir?”
“Get inside, all of you, fly back to Earth!” I shouted.
The gun is in my hand. I picked it up.
"No need, sir."
Explosion. The shadows are running. The screams stopped. After ten thousand years, how good it is to die. How good it is to feel sudden coolness and relaxation. How nice it is to be like a hand in a glove that becomes surprisingly cool on the hot sand. But no one can hesitate.
“God, he killed himself!” I scream and open my eyes wide, and the captain is lying next to the rocket... Blood is running out of his head. I lean over and touch him.
“Fool,” I say. "Why did he do this?"
The men are terrified. They stand over the two dead men and turn their heads to see the Martian sands and a distant well where Regent lies in the deep waters.
The men turned to me.
After a while, one of them says, “That makes you captain, Matthews.”
“I know,” I say slowly.
"Only six of us left."
“Oh my God, it happened so fast!”
“I don’t want to stay here, let’s get out!”
“Listen,” I say and touch their elbows or their hands.
We all fall silent.
We are one.
No, no, no, no, no, no! Inner voices scream, deep inside.
We look at each other. We are Samuel Matthews and Raymond Moses and William Spaulding and Charles Evans and Forrest Cole and John Summers, and we say nothing but look at each other, at our white faces and shaking hands.
Together we turn and look at the well.
“Now,” we say.
No, no, six voices are screaming, hidden in the depths of the soul forever.
Our feet walk on the sand, and it’s like a big hand with twelve fingers moves along the hot seabed.
We lean toward the well, looking down. From the cool depths six faces look at us.
One by one we lean until we lose our balance, and one by one we fall into the cold waters.
The sun is setting. Stars appear in the night sky. Far away, a flicker of light. Another rocket is approaching, leaving red trails in space.
I live in a well. I live like smoke in a well. Like steam in a stone throat. Overhead I see cold stars at night and in the morning, and I see the sun. And sometimes I sing old songs about this world when it was young. How can I tell you what I am when even I don't know? I can't. I'm just waiting.

© Ohanyan A., translation into Russian, 2017

© Publishing House "E" LLC, 2017

* * *

I live in a well. I live in a well, like smoke. Like smoke in a stone neck. I am motionless. I do nothing. I'm just waiting. Above my head I see the cold night and morning stars. And I see the sun. From time to time I sing the ancient songs of our world, from the time when he was still very young. How can I tell you who I am if I don’t know myself. There's no way I can. I'm just waiting. I am fog, I am moonlight, I am memory. I'm old and sad. Sometimes I rain down the well. In the water into which raindrops fall, ripples instantly scatter like a cobweb. I wait in cool silence, but the day will come when my waiting will end.

It's morning now. I hear a deafening roar. I smell flames in the distance. I hear a metallic grinding sound. I'm waiting. I'm listening.

- Let the people out!

Siliceous sands crunch.

- Mars! So that's what he is!

-Where is the flag?

- I have it, sir.

- Great, great.

The sun is shining in the blue heights; golden rays play on the walls of the well, and in the warm glow I begin to float, like invisible and blurry flower pollen.

– In the name of the Government of the Earth, I proclaim this area as the Martian Territory, which will be equally divided between the participating countries.

What they're saying? In the sun I spin like a wheel, invisible and lazy, golden and tireless.

- What is there?

- Well!

- Can't be!

- Yes, here he is!

Something warm is approaching. Three creatures lean over the mouth of the well, and my coolness rises to meet them.

- Fabulous!

– Do you think it’s okay to drink?

– Now we’ll find out.

- Someone run for a bottle and a rope.

- I'll be there in a minute!

The steps are removed. They are returning.

- Lower it, slowly.

The glass slowly lowers on a rope, casting reflections.

As soon as the bottle touches the surface and is filled, the water begins to ripple. Through the warm air I rise to the head of the well.