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Тем временем:

...
Something was going to happen.
She waited.
She watched the blue sky of Mars as if it might at any
moment grip in on itself, contract, and expel a shining miracle
down upon the sand.
Nothing happened.
Tired of waiting, she walked through the misting pillars.
A gentle rain sprang from the fluted pillar tops, cooling
the scorched air, falling gently on her. On hot days it was
like walking in a creek. The floors of the house glittered with
cool streams. In the distance she heard her husband playing his
book steadily, his fingers never tired of the old songs.
Quietly she wished he might one day again spend as much time
holding and touching her like a little harp as he did his
incredible books.
But no. She shook her head, an imperceptible, forgiving
shrug. Her eyelids closed softly down upon her golden eyes.
Marriage made people old and familiar, while still young.
She lay back in a chair that moved to take her shape even
as she moved. She closed her eyes tightly and nervously.
The dream occurred.
Her brown fingers trembled, came up, grasped at the air.
A moment later she sat up, startled, gasping.
She glanced about swiftly, as if expecting someone there
before her. She seemed disappointed; the space between the
pillars was empty.
Her husband appeared in a triangular door. "Did you call?"
he asked irritably.
"No!" she cried.
"I thought I heard you cry out."
"Did I? I was almost asleep and had a dream!"
"In the daytime? You don't often do that."
She sat as if struck in the face by the dream. "How
strange, how very strange," she murmured. "The dream."
"Oh?" He evidently wished to return to his book.
"I dreamed about a man."
"A man?"
"A tall man, six feet one inch tall."
"How absurd; a giant, a misshapen giant...

Рэй Брэдбери (Ray Bradbury)   
«The martian chronicle»