"Robert F. Young - The Questenestal Towers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

"To think," he said, "that all this while people have come here sightseeing, that some, like myself, have
come here for the express purpose of seeing those towers, and all the while no one knew, no one
dreamedтАФ But why? Why didn't you, or others of your race, tell us?"
"No one asked us, senir."
Thorton sat there quietly for a long time. Finally he said, "You implied a deeper significance, a
lessonтАФ"
"Yes, senir. Object worship flourished during the centuries immediately preceding the dust storms.
As I have explained, we were devoted to material objects Nothing to us had value unless it had been
manufactured by ourselves, unless it was immediately pleasing to the eye, and had, supposedly, a
necessary function to perform.
"Also, as I have explained, we loved our buildings and our cities most of all. We spent our long cool
evenings drinking our clear incomparable wine, looking up from our sidewalk cafes at tall stately facades,
at pinnacles lost in the stars. While it lasted, senir, it was a pleasant way of life. But, of course, it could
not last.
"When the dust storms came we burrowed underground. We could not take our buildings or our
objects with us. We had to leave out lovely houses and our beloved cities to the mercy of the wind and
the dust. And the wind and the dust were not merciful.
"No race can continue to maintain an ideal that is not durable, that will not forbear turning into a rusty
hulk or a pile of misshapen ruins the day after tomorrow. When the remnants of my people crept out into
the sun they saw nothing of their adored cities, nothing of their cherished objects. They saw nothing
butтАФ"
Suddenly the Martian knelt and plunged one hand into the ground He scooped up a handful of dark
red silt and let it trickle through his fingers.
"All of my people today, senir, are tillers of the soil. We live as closely to the soil as we can get.
When we crept forth from our burrows we found our heritage and humbly accepted it. The land."
"But the towersтАФ" Thorton said.
"Yes, yes, senir. The towers. They too remained. The towers and the dust. There is always an
exception to prove every rule, but seldom has a rule been proven as ironically as the towers proved this
rule ... When we looked across the desolation of our land and saw the towers, we knew in our hearts
that we would never build another building, or another city."
"But why?"
The Martian pointed across the canal. Dusk had begun to creep down from the crimson mountains,
across the yellow fields of maize. The towers stood, pale and cold and lonely. At their feet the neon veins
of the carnival town had begun to glow. "Look at them, senir. Read them. Can you not see why?"
"I see four tremendous letters of your alphabet immortalizing the name of the artist who constructed
them," Thorton said.
"Artist?"
"Certainly. The fact that he used his own name in the configuration of his masterpiece doesn't in the
least detract from his genius. Egotism is typical of all great artists, and Quetenestel undeniably was a very
great artist. The fact that his towers were the only buildings to survive the siroccos merely accentuates his
greatness."
The Martian was staring at him oddly. "I keep forgetting, senir, that you are unfamiliar with our
history, that you do not understand our language . . . Why did you come to Mars, senir?" he asked
abruptly.
Thorton was taken aback. The sudden change of subject caught him off guard and he answered
without thinking, without rationalizing.
"Why," he said, "to find something to take back with me."
"Thank you for telling me, senir."
"But you don't understand," Thorton said. "It's not what you're thinking. It's nothing simple. It's
nothing I can pick up and put into my pocket, or take home and place on my mantel. It's nothing like