Bradbury, Ray - End Of The Beginning.txt
THE END OF THE BEGINNING
Ray Bradbury
He stopped the lawn mower in the middie of the yard, because he felt that the sun at
just that moment had gone down and the stars come out. The fresh-cut grass that had
showered his face and body died soft!y away. Yes, the stars were there, faint at
first, but brightening in the clear desert sky. He heard the porch screen door tap
shut and felt his wife watching him as he watched the night.
"Almost time," she said.
He nodded; he did not have to check his watch. In the passing moments he felt very
old, then very young, very cold, then very warm, now this, now that. Suddenly he was
miles away. He was his own son talking steadily, moving briskly to cover his
pounding heart and the resurgent panics as he felt himself slip into fresh uniform,
check food supplies, oxygen flasks, pressure helmet, space-suiting, and turn as
every man on earth tonight turned, to gaze at the swiftly filling sky.
Then, quickly, he was back, once more the father of the son, hands gripped to the
lawn-mower handle. His wife called, "Come sit on the porch."
"I've got to keep busy!"
She came down the steps and across the lawn. "Don't worry about Robert; he'll be all
right."
"But it's all so new," he heard himself say. "It's never been done before. Think of
it - a manned rocket going up tonight to build the first space station. Good lord,
it can't be done, it doesn't exist, there's no rocket, no proving ground, no
take-off time, no technicians. For that matter, I don't even have a son named Bob.
The whole thing's too much for me!"
"Then what are you doing out here, staring?"
He shook his head. "Well, late this morning, walking to the office, I heard someone
laugh out loud. It shocked me, so I froze in the middle of the street. It was me,
laughing! Why? Because finally I really knew what Bob was going to do tonight; at
last I believed it. Holy is a word I never use, but that's how I felt stranded in
all that traffic. Then, middle of the afternoon I caught myself humming. You know
the song. 'A wheel in a wheel. Way in the middle of the air.' I laughed again. The
space station, of course, I thought. The big wheel with hollow spokes where Bob'll
live six or eight months, then get along to the moon. Walking home, I remembered
more of the song. 'Little wheel run by faith, Big wheel run by the grace of God.' I
wanted to jump, yell, and flame-out myself!"
His wife touched his arm. "If we stay out here, let's at least be comfortable."
They placed two wicker rockers in the center of the lawn and sat quietly as the
stars dissolved out of darkness in pale crushings of rock salt strewn from horizon
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to horizon.
"Why," said his wife, at last, "it's like waiting for the fireworks at Sisley Field
every year."
"Bigger crowd tonight . . ."
"I keep thinking - a billion people watching the sky right now, their mouths all
open at the same time."
They waited, feeling the earth move under their chairs.
"What time is it now?"
"Eleven minutes to eight."
"You're always right; there must be a clock in your head."
"I can't be wrong tonight. I'll be able to tell you one second before they blast
off. Look! The ten-minute warning!"
On the western sky they saw four crimson flares open out, float shimmering down the
wind above the desert, then sink silently to the extinguishing earth.
In the new darkness the husband and wife did not rock in their chairs.
After a while he said, "Eight minutes." A pause. "Seven minutes." What seemed a much
longer pause. "Six . . ."
His wife, her head back, studied the stars immediately above her and murmured,
"Why?" She closed her eyes. "Why the rockets, why tonight? Why all this? I'd like to
know."
He examined her face, pale in the vast powdering light of the Milky Way. He felt the
stirring of an answer, but let his wife continue.
"I mean it's not that old thing again, is it, when people asked why men climbed Mt.
Everest and they said, 'Because it's there'? I never understood. That was no answer
to me."
Five minutes, he thought. Time ticking . . . his wrist watch . . . a wheel in a
wheel . . . little wheel run by . . . big wheel run by . . . way in the middle of .
. . four minutes! . . . The men snug in the rocket by now, the hive, the control
board flickering with light.
His lips moved.
"All I know is it's really the end of the beginning. The Stone Age, Bronze Age, Iron
Age; from now on we'll lump all those together under one big name for when we walked
on Earth and heard the birds at morning and cried with envy. Maybe we'll call it the
Earth Age, or maybe the Age of Gravity. Millions of years we fought gravity. When we
were amoebas and fish we struggled to get out of the sea without gravity crushing
us. Once safe on the shore we fought to stand upright without gravity breaking our
new invention, the spine, tried to walk without stumbling, run without falling. A
billion years Gravity kept us home, mocked us with wind and clouds, cabbage moths
and locusts. That's what's so god-awful big about tonight . . . it's the end of old
man Gravity and the age we'll remember him by, for once and all. I don't know where
they'll divide the ages, at the Persians, who dreamt of flying carpets, or the
Chinese, who all unknowing celebrated birthdays and New Years with strung
ladyfingers and high skyrockets, or some minute, some incredible second the next
hour. But we're in at the end of a billion years trying, the end of something long
and to us humans, anyway, honorable."
Three minutes . . . two minutes fifty-nine seconds . . . two minutes fifty-eight
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seconds . . .
"But," said his wife, "I still don't know why."
Two minutes, he thought. Ready? Ready? Ready? The far radio voice calling. Ready!
Ready! Ready! The quick, faint replies from the humming rocket. Check! Check! Check!
Tonight, he thought, even if we fail with this first, we'll send a second and a
third ship and move on out to all the planets and later, all the stars. We'll just
keep going until the big words like immortal and forever take on meaning. Big words,
yes, that's what we want. Continuity. Since our tongues first moved in our mouths
we've asked, What does it all mean? No other question made sense, with death
breathing down our necks. But just let us settle in on ten thousand worlds spinning
around ten thousand alien suns and the question will fade away. Man will be endless
and infinite, even as space is endless and infinite. Man will go on, as space goes
on, forever. Individuals will die as always, but our history will reach as far as
we'll ever need to see into the future, and with the knowledge of our survival for
all time to come, we'll know security and thus the answer we've always searched for.
Gifted with life, the least we can do is preserve and pass on the gift to infinity.
That's a goal worth shooting for.
The wicker chairs whispered ever so softly on the grass.
One minute.
"One minute," he said aloud.
"Oh!" His wife moved suddenly to seize his hands. "I hope that Bob . . ."
"He'll be all right!"
"Oh, God, take care . . ."
Thirty seconds.
"Watch now."
Fifteen, ten, five . . .
"Watch!"
Four, three, two, one.
"There! There! Oh, there, there!"
They both cried out. They both stood. The chairs toppled back, fell flat on the
lawn. The man and his wife swayed, their hands struggled to find each other, grip,
hold. They saw the brightening color in the sky and, ten seconds later, the great
uprising comet burn the air, put out the stars, and rush away in fire flight to
become another star in the returning profusion of the Milky Way. The man and wife
held each other as if they had stumbled on the rim of an incredible cliff that faced
an abyss so deep and dark there seemed no end to it. Staring up, they heard
themselves sobbing and crying. Only after a long time were they able to speak.
"It got away, it did, didn't it?"
"Yes . . ."
"It's all right, isn't it?"
"Yes . . . yes . . ."
"It didn't fall back . . .?"
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"No, no, it's all right, Bob's all right, it's all right."
They stood away from each other at last.
He touched his face with his hand and looked at his wet fingers. "I'll be damned,"
he said, "I'll be damned."
They waited another five and then ten minutes until the darkness in their heads, the
retina, ached with a million specks of fiery salt. Then they had to close their
eyes.
"Well," she said, "now let's go in."
He could not move. Only his hand reached a long way out by itself to find the
lawn-mower handle. He saw what his hand had done and said, "There's just a little
more to do . . ."
"But you can't see."
"Well enough," he said. "I must finish this. Then we'll sit on the porch awhile
before we turn in."
He helped her put the chairs on the porch and sat her down and then walked back out
to put his hands on the guide bar of the lawn mower. The lawn mower. A wheel in a
wheel. A simple machine which you held in your bands, which you sent on ahead with a
rush and a clatter while you walked behind with your quiet philosophy. Racket,
followed by warm silence. Whirling wheel, then soft footfall of thought.
I'm a billion years old, he told himself; I'm one minute old. I'm one inch, no, ten
thousand miles, tall. I look down and can't see my feet they're so far off and gone
away below.
He moved the lawn mower. The grass showering up fell softly around him; he relished
and savored it and felt that he was all mankind bathing at last in the fresh waters
of the fountain of youth.
Thus bathed, he remembered the song again about the wheels and the faith and the
grace of God being way up there in the middle of the sky where that single star,
among a million motionless stars, dared to move and keep on moving.
Then he finished cutting the grass.
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Bradbury, Ray - Feverdream.txt
FEVER DREAM
Ray Bradbury
They put him between fresh, clean, laundered sheets and there was always a newly
squeezed glass of thick orange juice on the table under the dim pink lamp. All
Charles had to do was call and Morn or Dad would stick their heads into his room to
see how sick he was. The acoustics of the room were fine; you could hear the toilet
gargling its porcelain throat of mornings, you could hear rain tap the roof or sly
rnice run in the secret walls or the canary singing in its cage downstairs. If you
were very alert, sickness wasn't too bad.
He was thirteen, Charles was. It was mid-September, with the land beginning to burn
with antumn. He lay in the bed for three days before the terror overcame him.
His hand began to change. His right hand. He looked at it and it was hot and
sweating there on the counterpane alone. It fluttered, it moved a bit. Then it lay
there, changing color.
That afternoon the doctor came again and tapped his thin chest like a little drurn.
"How are you?" asked the doctor, smiling. "I know, don't tell me: 'My cold is fine,
Doctor, but I feel awful!' Ha!" He laughed at his own oft-repeated joke.
Charles lay there and for him that terrible and ancient jest was becoming a reality.
The joke fixed itself in his mind. His mind touched and drew away from it in a pale
terror. The doctor did not know how cruel he was with his jokes! "Doctor," whispered
Charles, lying flat and colorless. "My hand, it doesn't belong to me any more. This
morning it changed into something else. I want you to change it back, Doctor,
Doctor!"
The doctor showed his teeth and patted his hand. "It looks fine to me, son. You just
had a little fever dream."
"But it changed, Doctor, oh, Doctor," cried Charles, pitifully holding up his pale
wild hand. "It did! "
The doctor winked. "I'll give you a pink pill for that." He popped a tablet onto
Charles' tongue. "Swallow!"
"Will it make my hand change back and become me, again?"
"Yes, yes."
The house was silent when the doctor drove off down the road in his car under the
quiet, blue September sky. A clock ticked far below in the kitchen world. Charles
lay looking at his hand.
It did not change back. It was still something else.
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The wind blew outside. Leaves fell against the cool window.
At four o'clock his other hand changed. It seemed almost to become a fever. It
pulsed and shifted, cell by cell. It beat like a warm heart. The fingernails turned
blue and then red. It took about an hour for it to change and when it was finished,
it looked just like any ordinary hand. But it was not ordinary. It no longer was him
any more. He lay in a fascinated horror and then fell into an exhausted sleep.
Mother brought the soup up at six. He wouldn't touch it "I haven't any hands," he
said, eyes shut.
"Your hands are perfectly good," said Mother.
"No," he wailed. "My hands are gone. I feel like I have stumps. Oh, Mama, Mama, hold
me, hold me, I'm scared!"
She had to feed him herself.
"Mama," he said, "get the doctor, please, again. I'm so sick."
"The doctor'll be here tonight at eight," she said, and went out.
At seven, with night dark and close around the house, Charles was sitting up in bed
when he felt the thing happening to first one leg and then the other. "Mama! Come
quick!" he screamed.
But when Mama came the thing was no longer happening.
When she went downstairs, he simply lay without fighting as his legs beat and beat,
grew warm, red-hot, and the room filled with the warmth of his feverish change. The
glow crept up from his toes to his ankles and then to his knees.
"May I come in?" The doctor smiled in the doorway. "Doctor!" cried Charles. "Hurry,
take off my blankets!"
The doctor lifted the blankets tolerantly. "There you are. Whole and healthy.
Sweating, though. A little fever. I told you not to move around, bad boy." He
pinched the moist pink cheek. "Did the pills help? Did your hand change back?"
"No, no, now it's my other hand and my legs!"
"Well, well, I'll have to give you three more pills, one for each limb, eh, my
little peach?" laughed the doctor.
"Will they help me? Please, please. What've I got? "
"A mild case of scarlet fever, complicated by a slight cold."
"Is it a germ that lives and has more little germs in me?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure it's scarlet fever? You haven't taken any tests!"
"I guess I know a certain fever when I see one," said the doctor, checking the boy's
pulse with cool authority.
Charles lay there, not speaking until the doctor was crisply packing his black kit.
Then in the silent room, the boy's voice made a small, weak pattern, his eyes alight
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with remembrance. "I read a book once. About petrified trees, wood turning to stone.
About how trees fell and rotted and minerals got in and built up and they look just
like trees, but they're not, they're stone." He stopped. In the quiet warm room his
breathing sounded.
"Well?" asked the doctor.
"I've been thinking," said Charles after a time. "Do germs ever get big? I mean, in
biology class they told us about one-celled animals, amoebas and things, and how
millions of years ago they got together until there was a bunch and they made the
first body. And more and more cells got together and got bigger and then finally
maybe there was a fish and finally here we are, and all we are is a bunch of cells
that decided to get together, to help each other out. Isn't that right?" Charles wet
his feverish lips.
"What's all this about?" The doctor bent over him.
"I've got to tell you this. Doctor, oh, I've got to!" he cried. "What would happen,
oh just pretend, please pretend, that just like in the old days, a lot of microbes
got together and wanted to make a bunch, and reproduced and made more-"
His white hands were on his chest now, crawling toward his throat.
"And they decided to take over a person!" cried Charles.
"Take over a person?"
"Yes, become a person. Me, my hands, my feet! What if a disease somehow knew how to
kill a person and yet live after him?"
He screamed.
The hands were on his neck.
The doctor moved forward, shouting.
At nine o'clock the doctor was escorted out to his car by the mother and father, who
handed him his bag. They conversed in the cool night wind for a few minutes. "Just
be sure his hands are kept strapped to his legs," said the doctor. "I don't want him
hurting himself."
"Will he be all right, Doctor?" The mother held to his arm a moment.
He patted her shoulder. "Haven't I been your family physician for thirty years? It's
the fever. He imagines things."
"But those bruises on his throat, he almost choked himself."
"Just you keep him strapped; he'll be all right in the morning."
The car moved off down the dark September road.
At three in the morning, Charles was still awake in his small black room. The bed
was damp under his head and his back. He was very warm. Now he no longer had any
arms or legs, and his body was beginning to change. He did not move on the bed, but
looked at the vast blank ceiling space with insane concentration. For a while he had
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screamed and thrashed, but now he was weak and hoarse from it, and his mother had
gotten up a number of times to soothe his brow with a wet towel. Now be was silent,
his hands strapped to his legs.
He felt the walls of his body change, the organs shift, the lungs catch fire like
burning bellows of pink alcohol. The room was lighted up as with the flickerings of
a hearth.
Now he had no body. It was all gone. It was under him, but it was filled with a vast
pulse of some burning, lethargic drug. It was as if a guillotine had neatly lopped
off his head, and his head lay shining on a midnight pillow while the body, below,
still alive, belonged to somebody else. The disease had eaten his body and from the
eating had reproduced itself in feverish duplicate.
There were the little hand hairs and the fingernails and the scars and the toenails
and the tiny mole on his right hip, all done again in perfect fashion.
I am dead, he thought. I've been killed, and yet I live. My body is dead, it is all
disease and nobody will know. I will walk around and it will not be me, it will be
something else. It will be something all bad, all evil, so big and so evil it's hard
to understand or think about. Something that will buy shoes and drink water and get
married some day maybe and do more evil in the worid than has ever been done.
Now the warmth was stealing up his neck, into his cheeks, like a hot wine. His lips
burned, his eyelids, like leaves, caught fire. His nostrils breathed out blue flame,
faintly, faintly.
This will be all, he thought. It'll take my head and my brain and fix each eye and
every tooth and all the marks in my brain, and every hair and every wrinkle in my
ears, and there'll be nothing left of me.
He felt his brain fill with a boiling mercury. He felt his left eye clench in upon
itself and, like a snail, withdraw, shift. He was blind in his left eye. It no
longer belonged to him. It was enemy territory. His tongue was gone, cut out. His
left cheek was numbed, lost. His left ear stopped hearing. It belonged to someone
else now. This thing that was being born, this mineral thing replacing the wooden
log, this disease replacing healthy animal cell.
He tried to scream and he was able to scream loud and high and sharply in the room,
just as his brain flooded down, his right eye and right ear were cut out, he was
blind and deaf, all fire, all terror, all panic, all death.
His scream stopped before his mother ran through the door to his side.
It was a good, clear morning, with a brisk wind that helped carry the doctor up the
path before the house. In the window above, the boy stood, fully dressed. He did not
wave when the doctor waved and called, "What's this? Up? My God!"
The doctor almost ran upstairs. He came gasping into the bedroom.
"What are you doing out of bed?" he demanded of the boy. He tapped his thin chest,
took his pulse and temperature. "Absolutely amazing! Normal. Normal, by God!"
"I shall never be sick again in my life," declared the boy, quietly, standing there,
looking out the wide window. "Never."
"I hope not. Why, you're looking fine, Charles."
"Doctor?"
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"Yes, Charles?"
"Can I go to school now? " asked Charles.
"Tomorrow will be time enough. You sound positively eager."
"I am. I like school. All the kids. I want to play with them and wrestle with them,
and spit on them and play with the girls' pigtails and shake the teacher's hand, and
rub my hands on all the cloaks in the cloakroom, and I want to grow up and travel
and shake hands with people all over the world, and be married and have lots of
children, and go to libraries and handle books and - all of that I want to!" said
the boy, looking off into the September morning. "What's the name you called me?"
"What?" The doctor puzzled. "I called you nothing but Charles."
"It's better than no name at all, I guess." The boy shrugged.
"I'm glad you want to go back to school," said the doctor.
"I really anticipate it," smiled the boy. "Thank you for your help, Doctor. Shake
hands."
"Glad to."
They shook hands gravely, and the clear wind blew through the open window. They
shook hands for almost a minute, the boy smiling up at the old man and thanking him.
Then, laughing, the boy raced the doctor downstairs and out to his car. His mother
and father followed for the happy farewell.
"Fit as a fiddle!" said the doctor. "Incredible!"
"And strong," said the father. "He got out of his straps himself during the night.
Didn't you, Charles?"
"Did I?" said the boy.
"You did! How?"
"Oh," the boy said, "that was a long time ago."
"A long time ago!"
They all laughed, and while they were laughing, the quiet boy moved his bare foot on
the sidewalk and merely touched, brushed against a number of red ants that was
scurrying about on the sidewalk. Secretly, his eyes shining, while his parents
chatted with the old man, he saw the ants hesitate, quiver, and lie still on the
cement. He sensed they were cold now.
"Good-by!"
The doctor drove away, waving.
The boy walked ahead of his parents. As he walked he looked away toward the town and
began to hum "School Days" under his breath.
"It's good to have him well again," said the father.
"Listen to him. He's so looking forward to school!"
The boy turned quietly. He gave each of his parents a crushing hug. He kissed them
both several times.
Then without a word he bounded up the steps into the house.
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In the parlor, before the others entered, he quickly opened the bird cage, thrust
his hand in, and petted the yellow canary, once.
Then he shut the cage door, stood back, and waited.
Page 6



Bradbury, Ray - MARRIAGE MENDER.txt
THE MARRIAGE MENDER
Ray Bradbury
In the sun the headboard was like a fountain, tossing up plumes of clear light. It
was carved with lions and gargoyles and bearded goats. It was an awe-inspiring
object even at midnight, as Antonio sat on the bed and unlaced his shoes and put his
large calloused hand out to touch its shimmering harp. Then he rolled over into this
fabulous machine for dreaming, and he lay breathing heavily, his eyes beginning to
close.
"Every night," his wife's voice said, "we sleep in the mouth of a calliope."
Her complaint shocked him. He lay a long while before daring to reach up his
hard-tipped fingers to stroke the cold metal of the intricate headboard, the threads
of this lyre that had sung many wild and beautiful songs down the years.
"This is no calliope," he said.
"It cries like one," Maria said. "A billion people on this world tonight have beds.
Why, I ask the saints, not us?"
"This," said Antonio gently, "is a bed." He plucked a little tune on the imitation
brass harp behind his head. To his ears it was "Santa Lucia."
"This bed has humps like a herd of camels was under it."
"Now, Mama," Antonio said. He called her Mama when she was mad, though they had no
children. "You were never this way," he went on, "until five months ago when Mrs.
Brancozzi downstairs bought her new bed."
Maria said wistfully, "Mrs. Brancozzi's bed. It's like snow. It's all flat and white
and smooth."
"I don't want any damn snow, all flat and white and smooth! These springs - feel
them!" he cried angrily. "They know me. They recognize that this hour of night I lie
thus, at two o'clock, so! Three o'clock this way, four o'clock that. We are like a
tumbling act, we've worked together for years and know all the holds and fails."
Maria sighed, and said, "Sometimes I dream we're in the taffy machine at Bartole's
candy store."
"This bed," he announced to the darkness, "served our family before Garibaldi! From
this wellspring alone came precincts of honest voters, a squad of clean-saluting
Army men, two confectioners, a barber, four second leads for Il Trovatore and
Rigoletto, and two geniuses so complex they never could decide what to do in their
lifetime! Not to forget enough beautiful women to provide ballrooms with their
finest decoration. A cornucopia of plenty, this bed! A veritable harvesting
machine!"
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"We have been married two years," she said with dreadful control over her voice.
"Where are our second leads for Rigoletto, our geniuses, our ballroom decorations?"
"Patience, Mama."
"Don't call me Mama! While this bed is busy favoring you all night, never once has
it done for me. Not even so much as a baby girl! "
He sat up. "You've let these women in this tenement ruin you with their dollar-down,
dollar-a-week talk. Has Mrs. Brancozzi children? Her and her new bed that she's had
for five months?"
"No! But soon! Mrs. Brancozzi says . . . and her bed, so beautiful."
He slammed himself down and yanked the covers over him. The bed screamed like all
the Furies rushing through the night sky, fading away toward the dawn.
The moon changed the shape of the window pattern on the floor. Antonio awoke. Maria
was not beside him.
He got up and went to peer through the half-open door of the bathroom. His wife
stood at the mirror looking at her tired face.
"I don't feel well," she said.
"We argued." He put out his hand to pat her. "I'm sorry. We'll think it over. About
the bed, I mean. We'll see how the money goes. And if you're not well tomorrow, see
the doctor, eh? Now, come back to bed."
At noon the next day, Antonio walked from the lumberyard to a window where stood
fine new beds with their covers invitingly turned back.
"I," he whispered to himself, "am a beast."
He checked his watch. Maria, at this time, would be going to the doctor's. She had
been like cold milk this morning; he had told her to go. He walked on to the
candy-store window and watched the taffy machine folding and threading and pulling.
Does taffy scream? he wondered. Perhaps, but so high we cannot hear it. He laughed.
Then, in the stretched taffy, he saw Maria. Frowning, he turned and walked back to
the furniture store. No. Yes. No. Yes! He pressed his nose to the icy window. Bed,
he thought, you in there, new bed, do you know me? Will you be kind to my back,
nights?
He took out his wallet slowly, and peered at the money. He sighed, gazed for a long
time at that flat marbletop, that unfamiliar enemy, that new bed. Then, shoulders
sagging, he walked into the store, his money held loosely in his hand.
"Maria!" He ran up the steps two at a time. It was nine o'clock at night and he had
managed to beg off in the middle of his overtime at the lumberyard to rush home. He
rushed through the open doorway, smiling.
The apartment was empty.
"Ah," he said disappointedly. He laid the receipt for the new bed on top of the
bureau where Maria might see it when she entered. On those few evenings when he
worked late she visited with any one of several neighbors downstairs.
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I'll go find her, he thought, and stopped. No. I want to tell her alone. I'll wait.
He sat on the bed. "Old bed," he said, "good-by to you. I am very sorry." He patted
the brass lions nervously. He paced the floor. Come on, Maria. He imagined her
smile.
He listened for her quick running on the stair, but he heard only a slow, measured
tread. He thought: That's not my Maria, slow like that, no.
The doorknob turned.
"Maria!"
"You're early!" She smiled happily at him. Did she guess? Was it written on his
face? "I've been downstairs," she cried, "telling everyone!"
"Telling everyone?"
"The doctor! I saw the doctor!"
"The doctor?" He looked bewildered. "And?"
"And, Papa, and-"
"Do you mean - Papa?"
"Papa, Papa, Papa, Papa!"
"Oh," he said, gently, "you walked so carefully on the stairs."
He took hold of her, but not too tight, and he kissed her cheeks, and he shut his
eyes, and he yelled. Then he had to wake a few neighbors and tell them, shake them,
tell them again. There had to be a little wine and a careful waltz around, an
embracing, a trembling, a kissing of brow, eyelids, nose, lips, temples, ears, hair,
chin - and then it was past midnight.
"A miracle," he sighed.
They were alone in their room again, the air warm from the people who had been here
a minute before, laughing, talking. But now they were alone again.
Turning out the light, he saw the receipt on the bureau. Stunned, he tried to decide
in what subtle and delicious way to break this additional news to her.
Maria sat upon her side of the bed in the dark, hypnotized with wonder. She moved
her hands as if her body was a strange doll, taken apart, and now to be put back
together again, limb by limb, her motions as slow as if she lived beneath a warm sea
at midnight. Now, at last, careful not to break herself, she lay back upon the
pillow.
"Maria, I have something to tell you."
"Yes?" she said faintly.
"Now that you are as you are." He squeezed her hand. "You deserve the comfort, the
rest, the beauty of a new bed."
She did not cry out happily or turn to him or seize him. Her silence was a thinking
silence.
He was forced to continue. "This bed is nothing but a pipe organ, a calliope."
"It is a bed," she said.
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"A herd of camels sleep under it."
"No," she said quietly, "from it will come precincts of honest voters, captains
enough for three armies, two ballerinas, a famous lawyer, a very tall policeman, and
seven basso profundos, altos, and sopranos."
He squinted across the dimly lighted room at the receipt upon the bureau. He touched
the worn mattress under him. The springs moved softly to recognize each limb, each
tired muscle, each aching bone.
He sighed. "I never argue with you, little one."
"Mama," she said.
"Mama," he said.
And then as he closed his eyes and drew the covers to his chest and lay in the
darkness by the great fountain, in the sight of a jury of fierce metal lions and
amber goat and smiling gargoyles, he listened. And he heard it. It was very far away
at first, very tentative, but it came clearer as he listened.
Softly, her arm back over her head, Maria's finger tips began to tap a little dance
on the gleaming harp strings, on the shimmering brass pipes of the ancient bed. The
music was - yes, of course: "Santa Lucia!" His lips moved to it in a warm whisper.
Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia.
It was very beautiful.
Page 4



Bradbury, Ray - MEDICINE FOR MELANCHOLY.txt
A MEDICINE FOR MELANCHOLY
( or: THE SOVEREIGN REMEDY REVEALED! )
Ray Bradbury
"Send for some leeches; bleed her," said Doctor Gimp.
"She has no blood left!" cried Mrs. Wilkes. "Oh, Doctor, what ails our Camillia?"
"She's not right."
"Yes, yes?"
"She's poorly." The good doctor scowled.
"Go on, go on!"
"She's a fluttering candle flame, no doubt."
"Ah, Doctor Gimp," protested Mr. Wilkes. "You but tell us as you go out what we told
you when you came in!"
"No, more! Give her these pills at dawn, high noon, and sunset. A sovereign remedy!"
"Damn, she's stuffed with sovereign remedies now!"
"Tut-tut! That's a shilling as I pass downstairs, sir."
"Go down and send the Devil up!" Mr. Wilkes shoved a coin in the good doctor's hand.
Whereupon the physician, wheezing, taking snuff, sneezing, stamped down into the
swarming streets of London on a sloppy morn in the spring of 1762.
Mr. and Mrs. Wilkes turned to the bed where their sweet Camillia lay pale, thin,
yes, but far from unlovely, with large wet lilac eyes, her hair a creek of gold upon
her pillow.
"Oh," she almost wept. "What's to become of me? Since the start of spring, three
weeks, I've been a ghost in my mirror; I frighten me. To think I'll die without
seeing my twentieth birthday."
"Child," said the mother. "Where do you hurt?"
"My arms. My legs. My bosom. My head. How many doctors - six? - have turned me like
a beef on a spit. No more. Please, let me pass away untouched."
"What a ghastly, what a mysterious illness," said the mother. "Oh, do something, Mr.
Wilkes!"
"What?" asked Mr. Wilkes angrily. "She won't have the physician, the apothecary, or
the priest! - and Amen to that! - they've wrung me dry! Shall I run in the street
then and bring the Dustman up?"
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"Yes," said a voice.
"What!" All three turned to stare.
They had quite forgotten her younger brother, Jamie, who stood picking his teeth at
a far window, gazing serenely down into the drizzle and the loud rumbling of the
town.
"Four hundred years ago," he said serenely, "it was tried, it worked. Don't bring
the Dustman up, no, no. But let us hoist Camillia, cot and all, maneuver her
downstairs, and set her up outside our door."
"Why? What for?"
"In a single hour" - Jamie's eyes jumped, counting - "a thousand folk rush by our
gate. In one day, twenty thousand people run, hobble, or ride by. Each might eye my
swooning sister, each count her teeth, pull her ear lobes, and all, all, mind you,
would have a sovereign remedy to offer! One of them would just have to be right!"
"Ah," said Mr. Wilkes, stunned.
"Father!" said Jamie breathlessly. "Have you ever known one single man who didn't
think he personally wrote Materia Medica? This green ointment for sour throat, that
ox-salve for miasma or bloat? Right now, ten thousand self-appointed apothecaries
sneak off down there, their wisdom lost to us!"
"Jamie boy, you're incredible!"
"Cease!" said Mrs. Wilkes. "No daughter of mine will be put on display in this or
any street-"
"Fie, woman!" said Mr. Wilkes. "Camillia melts like snow and you hesitate to move
her from this hot room? Come, Jamie, lift the bed!"
"Camillia?" Mrs. Wilkes turned to her daughter.
"I may as well die in the open," said Camlila, "where a cool breeze might stir my
locks as I . . ."
"Bosh!" said the father. "You'll not die. Jamie, heave! Ha! There! Out of the way,
wife! Up, boy, higher!"
"Oh," cried Camillia faindy. "I fly, I fly . . . !"
Quite suddenly a blue sky opened over London. The population, surprised by the
weather, hurried out into the streets, panicking for something to see, to do, to
buy. Blind men sang, dogs jigged, clowns shuffled and tumbled, children chalked
games and threw balls as if it were carnival time.
Down into all this, tottering, their veins bursting from their brows, Jamie and Mr.
Wilkes carried Camillia like a lady Pope sailing high in her sedan-chair cot, eyes
clenched shut, praying.
"Careful!" screamed Mrs. Wilkes. "Ah, she's dead! No. There. Put her down. Easy . .
."
And at last the bed was tilted against the house front so that the River of Humanity
surging by could see Camillia, a large pale Bartolemy Doll put out like a prize in
the sun.
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"Fetch a quill, ink, paper, lad," said the father. "I'll make notes as to symptoms
spoken of and remedies offered this day. Tonight we'll average them out. Now-"
Bijt already a man in the passing crowd had fixed Camillia with a sharp eye.
"She's sick!" he said.
"Ah," said Mr. Wilkes, gleefully. "It begins. The quill, boy. There. Go on, sir!"
"She's not well." The man scowled. "She does poorly."
"Does poorly-" Mr. Wilkes wrote, then froze. "Sir?" He looked up suspiciously. "Are
you a physician?"
"I am, sir."
"I thought I knew the words! Jamie, take my cane, drive him off! Go, sir, be gone!"
But the man hastened off, cursing, mightily exasperated.
"She's not well, she does poorly . . . pah!" mimicked Mr. Wilkes, but stopped. For
now a woman, tall and gaunt as a specter fresh risen from the tomb, was pointing a
finger at Camillia Wilkes.
"Vapors," she intoned.
"Vapors," wrote Mr. Wilkes, pleased.
"Lung-flux," chanted the woman.
"Lung-flux!" Mr. Wilkes wrote, beaming. "Now, that's more like it!"
"A medicine for melancholy is needed," said the woman palely. "Be there mummy ground
to medicine in your house? The best mummies are: Egyptian, Arabian, Hirasphatos,
Libyan, all of great use in magnetic disorders. Ask for me, the Gypsy, at the
Flodden Road. I sell stone parsley, male frankincense-"
"Flodden Road, stone parsey - slower, woman!"
"Opobalsam, pontic valerian-"
"Wait, woman! Opobalsam, yes! Jamie, stop her!"
But the woman, naming medicines, glided on.
A girl, no more than seventeen, walked up now and stared at Camillia Wilkes.
"She-"
"One moment!" Mr. Wilkes scribbled feverishly. "-magnetic disorders - pontic
valerian - drat! Well, young girl, now. What do you see in my daughter's face? You
fix her with your gaze, you hardly breathe. So?"
"She-" The strange girl searched deep into Camillia's eyes, flushed, and stammered.
"She suffers from . . . from . . ."
"Spit it out!"
"She . . . she . . . oh!"
And the girl, with a last look of deepest sympathy, darted off through the crowd.
"Silly girl!"
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"No, Papa," murmured Camillia, eyes wide. "Not silly. She saw. She knew. Oh, Jamie,
run fetch her, make her tell!"
"No, she offered nothing! Whereas, the Gypsy, see her list!"
"I know it, Papa." Camillia, paler, shut her eyes.
Someone cleared his throat.
A butcher, his apron a scarlet battleground, stood bristling his fierce mustaches
there.
"I have seen cows with this look," he said. "I have saved them with brandy and three
new eggs. In winter I have saved myself with the same elixir-"
"My daughter is no cow, sir!" Mr. Wilkes threw down his quill. "Nor is she a
butcher, nor is it January! Step back, sir, others wait!"
And indeed, now a vast crowd clamored, drawn by the others, aching to advise their
favorite swig, recommend some country site where it rained less and shone more sun
than in all England or your South of France. Old men and women, especial doctors as
all the aged are, clashed by each other in bristles of canes, in phalanxes of
crutches and hobble sticks.
"Back!" cried Mrs. Wilkes, alarmed. "They'll crush my daughter like a spring berry!"
"Stand off!" Jamie seized canes and crutches and threw them over the mob, which
turned on itself to go seek their missing members.
"Father, I fail, I fail," gasped Camillia.
"Father!" cried Jamie. "There's but one way to stop this riot! Charge them! Make
them pay to give us their mind on this ailment!"
"Jamie, you are my son! Quick, boy, paint a sign! Listen, people! Tuppence! Queue up
please, a line! Tuppence to speak your piece! Get your money out, yes! That's it.
You, sir. You, madame. And you, sir. Now, my quill! Begin!"
The mob boiled in like a dark sea.
Camlia opened one eye and swooned again.
Sundown, the streets almost empty, only a few strollers now. Camillia moth-fluttered
her eyelids at a famiiar clinking jingle.
"Three hundred and ninety-nine, four hundred pennies!" Mr. Wilkes counted the last
money into a bag held by his grinning son. "There!"
"It will buy me a fine black funeral coach," said the pale girl.
"Hush! Did you imagine, family, so many people, two hundred, would pay to give us
their opinion?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Wilkes. "Wives, husbands, children, are deaf to each other. So
people gladly pay to have someone listen. Poor things, each today thought he and he
alone knew quinsy, dropsy, glanders, could tell the slaver from the hives. So
tonight we are rich and two hundred people are happy, having unloaded their full
medical kit at our door."
"Gods, instead of quelling the riot, we had to drive them off snapping like pups."
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"Read us the list, Father," said Jamie, "of two hundred remedies. Which one is
true?"
"I care not," whispered Carillia, sighing. "It grows dark. My stomach is queasy from
listening to the names! May I be taken upstairs?"
"Yes, dear. Jamie, lift!"
"Please," said a voice.
Half-bent, the men looked up.
There stood a Dustman of no particular size or shape, his face masked with soot from
which shone water-blue eyes and a white slot of an ivory smile. Dust sifted from his
sleeves and his pants as he moved, as he talked quietly, nodding.
"I couldn't get through the mob earlier," he said, holding his dirty cap in his
hands. "Now, going home, here I am. Must I pay?"
"No, Dustman, you need not," said Camillia gently.
"Hold on-" protested Mr. Wilkes.
But Camillia gave him a soft look and he grew silent.
"Thank you, ma'am." The Dustman's smile flashed like warm sunlight in the growing
dusk. "I have but one advice."
He gazed at Camillia. She gazed at him.
"Be this Saint Bosco's Eve, sir, ma 'am?"
"Who knows? Not me, sir!" said Mr. Wilkes.
"I think it is Saint Bosco's Eve, sir. Also, it is the night of the Full Moon. So,"
said the Dustman humbly, unable to take his eyes from the lovely haunted girl, "you
must leave your daughter out in the light of that rising moon."
"Out under the moon!" said Mrs. Wilkes.
"Doesn't that make the lunatic?" asked Jamie.
"Beg pardon, sir." The Dustman bowed. "But the full moon soothes all sick animal, be
they human or plain field beast. There is a serenity of color, a quietude of touch,
a sweet sculpturing of mind and body in full moonlight."
"It may rain-" said the mother uneasily.
"I swear," said the Dustman quickly. "My sister suffered this same swooning
paleness. We set her like a potted lily out one spring night with the moon. She
lives today in Sussex, the soul of reconstituted health!"
"Reconstituted! Moonlight! And will cost us not one penny of the four hundred we
collected this day, Mother, Jamie, Camillia."
"No!" said Mrs. Wilkes. "I won't have it!"
"Mother," said Camillia.
She looked earnestly at the Dustman.
From his grimed face the Dustman gazed back, his smile like a little scimitar in the
dark.
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"Mother," said Camillia. "I feel it. The moon will cure me, it will, it will . . ."
The mother sighed. "This is not my day, nor night. Let me kiss you for the last
time, then. There."
And the mother went upstairs.
Now the Dustman backed off, bowing courteously to all.
"All night, now, remember, beneath the moon, not the slightest disturbance until
dawn. Sleep well, young lady. Dream, and dream the best. Good night."
Soot was lost in soot; the man was gone.
Mr. Wilkes and Jamie kissed Camillia's brow.
"Father, Jamie," she said. "Don't worry."
And she was left alone to stare off where at a great distance she thought she saw a
smile hung by itself in the dark blink off and on, then go round a corner,
vanishing.
She waited for the rising of the moon.
Night in London, the voices growing drowsier in the inns, the slamming of doors,
drunken farewells, clocks chiming. Camillia saw a cat like a woman stroll by in her
furs, saw a woman like a cat stroll by, both wise, both Egyptian, both smelling of
spice. Every quarter hour or so a voice drifted down from above:
"You all right, child?"
"Yes, Father."
"Camillia?"
"Mother, Jamie, I'm fine."
And at last. "Good night."
"Good night."
The last lights out. London asleep.
The moon rose.
And the higher the moon, the larger grew Camillia's eyes as she watched the alleys,
the courts, the streets, until at last, at midnight, the moon moved over her to show
her like a marble figure atop an ancient tomb.
A motion in darkness.
Camillia pricked her ears.
A faint melody sprang out on the air.
A man stood in the shadows of the court.
Camillia gasped.
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The man stepped forth into moonlight, carrying a lute which he strummed softly. He
was a man well-dressed, whose face was handsome and, now anyway, solemn.
"A troubadour," said Camillia aloud.
The man, his finger on his lips, moved slowly forward and soon stood by her cot.
"What are you doing out so late?" asked the girl, unafraid but not knowing why.
"A friend sent me to make you well." He touched the lute strings. They hummed
sweetly. He was indeed handsome there in the silver light.
"That cannot be," she said, "for it was told me, the moon is my cure."
"And so it will be, maiden."
"What songs do you sing?"
"Songs of spring nights, aches and ailments without name. Shall I name your fever,
maiden?"
"If you know it, yes."
"First, the symptoms: raging temperatures, sudden cold, heart fast then slow, storms
of temper, then sweet calms, drunkenness from having sipped only well water,
dizziness from being touched only thus-"
He touched her wrist, saw her melt toward delicious oblivion, drew back.
"Depressions, elations," he went on. "Dreams-"
"Stop!" she cried, enthralled. "You know me to the letter. Now, name my ailment!"
"I will." He pressed his lips to the palm of her hand so she quaked suddenly. "The
name of the ailment is Camillia Wilkes."
"How strange." She shivered, her eyes glinting lilac fires. "Am I then my own
affliction? How sick I make myself! Even now, feel my heart!"
"I feel it, so."
"My limbs, they burn with summer heat!"
"Yes. They scorch my fingers."
"But now, the night wind, see how I shudder, cold! I die, I swear it, I die!"
"I will not let you," he said quietly.
"Are you a doctor, then?"
"No, just your plain, your ordinary physician, like another who guessed your trouble
this day. The girl who would have named it but ran off in the crowd."
"Yes, I saw in her eyes she knew what had seized me. But, now, my teeth chatter. And
no extra blanket!"
"Give room, please. There. Let me see: two arms, two legs, head and body. I'm all
here!"
"What, sir!"
"To warm you from the night, of course."
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"How like a hearth! Oh, sir, sir, do I know you? Your name?"
Swiftly above her, his head shadowed hers. From it his merry clear-water eyes glowed
as did his white ivory slot of a smile.
"Why, Bosco, of course," he said.
"Is there not a saint by that name?"
"Given an hour, you will call me so, yes."
His head bent closer. Thus sooted in shadow, she cried with joyous recognition to
welcome her Dustman back.
"The world spins! I pass away! The cure, sweet Doctor, or all is lost!"
"The cure," he said. "And the cure is this . . ."
Somewhere, cats sang. A shoe, shot from a window, tipped them off a fence. Then all
was silence and the moon . . .
"Shh . . ."
Dawn. Tiptoeing downstairs, Mr. and Mrs. Wilkes peered into their courtyard.
"Frozen stone dead from the terrible night, I know it!"
"No, wife, look! Alive! Roses in her cheeks! No, more! Peaches, persimmons! She
glows all rosy-milky! Sweet Camillia, alive and well, made whole again!"
They bent by the slumbering girl.
"She smiles, she dreams; what's that she says?"
"The sovereign," sighed the girl, "remedy."
"What, what?"
The girl smiled again, a white smile, in her sleep.
"A medicine," she murmured, "for melancholy."
She opened her eyes.
"Oh, Mother, Father!"
"Daughter! Child! Come upstairs!"
"No." She took their hands, tenderly. "Mother? Father?"
"Yes?"
"No one will see. The sun but rises. Please. Dance with me."
They did not want to dance.
But, celebrating they knew not what, they did.
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Page 9



The sign on the wall seemed to quaver under a film of sliding
warm water, Eckels felt his eyelids blink over his stare,
and the sign burned in this momentary darkness:

TIME SAFARI, INC.
SAFARIS TO ANY YEAR IN THE PAST.
YOU NAME THE ANIMAL.
WE TAKE YOU THERE.
YOU SHOOT IT.

A warm phlegm gathered in Eckels' throat; he swallowed
and pushed it down. The muscles around his mouth formed
a smile as he put his hand slowly out upon the air, and in
that hand waved a check for ten thousand dollars to the
man behind the desk.
"Does this safari guarantee I come back alive?"
"We guarantee nothing," said the official, "except the
dinosaurs." He turned. "This is Mr. Travis, your Safari
Guide in the Past. He'll tell you what and where to shoot.
If he says no shooting, no shooting. If you disobey instructions, 
there's a stiff penalty of another ten thousand dollars,
plus possible government action, on your return."
Eckels glanced across the vast office at a mass and tangle,
a snaking and humming of wires and steel boxes, at an
aurora that flickered now orange, now silver, now blue.
There was a sound like a gigantic bonfire burning all of
Time, all the years and all the parchment calendars, all the
hours piled high and set aflame.
A touch of the hand and this burning would, on the instant,  
beautifully  reverse  itself.  Eckels  remembered  the
wording in the advertisements to the letter. Out of chars
and ashes, out of dust and coals, like golden salamanders,
the old years, the green years, might leap; roses sweeten
the air, white hair turn Irish-black, wrinkles vanish; all,
everything fly back to seed, flee death, rush down to their
beginnings, suns rise in western skies and set in glorious
easts, moons eat themselves opposite to the custom, all and
everything cupping one in another like Chinese boxes, rabbits
in hats, all and everything returning to the fresh death,
the seed death, the green death, to the time before the
beginning. A touch of a hand might do it, the merest touch
of a hand.
"Hell and damn," Eckels breathed, the light of the
Machine on his thin face. "A real Time Machine." He shook his
head. "Makes you think. If the election had gone badly
yesterday, I might be here now running away from the results.
Thank God Keith won. He'll make a fine President of the
United States."
"Yes," said the man behind the desk. "Were lucky. If
Deutscher had gotten in, we'd have the worst kind of 
dictatorship. There's an anti-everything man for you, a
militarist,   anti-Christ,   anti-human,   anti-intellectual. 
People called us up, you know, joking but not joking. Said if
Deutscher became President they wanted to go live in 1492.
Of course it's not our business to conduct Escapes, but to
form Safaris. Anyway, Keith's President now. All you got to
worry about is"
"Shooting my dinosaur," Eckels finished it for him.
"A Tyrannosaurus Rex. The Thunder Lizard, the damnedest
monster in history. Sign this release. Anything happens
to you, we're not responsible. Those dinosaurs are hungry."
Eckels flushed angrily. "Trying to scare me!"
"Frankly, yes. We don't want anyone going who'll panic
at the first shot. Six Safari leaders were killed last year, and
a dozen hunters. We're here to give you the damnedest
thrill a real hunter ever asked for. Travelling you back sixty
million years to bag the biggest damned game in all Time.
Your personal check's still there. Tear it up."
Mr. Eckels looked at the check for a long time. His
fingers twitched.
"Good luck," said the man behind the desk. "Mr. Travis,
he's all yours."
They moved silently across the room, taking their guns
with them, toward the Machine, toward the silver metal
and the roaring light.
First a day and then a night and then a day and then a
night,  then it was  day-night-day-night-day.  A week,  a
month, a year, a decade! A.D. 2055. A.D. zoic). 1999! 1957!
Gone! The Machine roared.
They put on their oxygen helmets and tested the intercoms.
Eckels swayed on the padded seat, his face pale, his
jaws stiff. He felt the trembling in his arms and he looked
down and found his hands tight on the new rifle. There
were four other men in the Machine. Travis, the Safari
Leader, his assistant, Lesperance, and two other hunters,
Billings and Kramer. They sat looking at each other, and
the years blazed around them.
"Can these guns get a dinosaur cold?" Eckels felt his
mouth saying.
"If you hit them right," said Travis on the helmet radio.
"Some dinosaurs have two brains, one in the head, another
far down the spinal column. We stay away from those.
That's stretching luck. Put your first two shots into the eyes,
if you can, blind them, and go back into the brain."
The Machine howled. Time was a film run backward.
Suns fled and ten million moons fled after them. "Good
God," said Eckels. "Every hunter that ever lived would envy
us today. This makes Africa seem like Illinois."
The Machine slowed; its scream fell to a murmur. The
Machine stopped.
The sun stopped in the sky.
The fog that had enveloped the Machine blew away and
they were in an old time, a very old time indeed, three
hunters and two Safari Heads with their blue metal guns
across their knees.
"Christ isn't born yet," said Travis. "Moses has not gone
to the mountain to talk with God. The Pyramids are still in
the earth, waiting to be cut out and put up. Remember that,
Alexander, Caesar, Napoleon, Hitler, none of them exists."
The men nodded.
"That" Mr. Travis pointed" is the jungle of sixty million
two thousand and fifty-five years before President Keith."
He indicated a metal path that struck off into green
wilderness, over steaming swamp, among giant ferns and
palms.
"And that," he said, "is the Path, laid by Time Safari for
your use. It floats six inches above the earth. Doesn't touch
so much as one grass blade, flower, or tree. It's an anti-
gravity metal. Its purpose is to keep you from touching this
world of the past in any way. Stay on the Path. Don't go
off it. I repeat. Don't go off. For any reason! If you fall off,
there's a penalty. And don't shoot any animal we don't
okay."
"Why?" asked Eckels.
They sat in the ancient wilderness. Far birds' cries blew
on a wind, and the smell of tar and an old salt sea, moist
grasses, and flowers the colour of blood.
"We don't want to change the Future. We don't belong
here in the Past. The government doesn't like us here. We
have to pay big graft to keep our franchise. A Time 
Machine is damn finicky business. Not knowing it, we might
kill an important animal, a small bird, a roach, a flower even,
thus destroying an important link in a growing species."
"That's not clear," said Eckels.
"All right," Travis continued, "say we accidentally kill one
mouse here. That means all the future families of this one
particular mouse are destroyed, right?"
"Right."
"And all the families of the families of that one mouse!
With a stamp of your foot, you annihilate first one, then
a dozen, then a thousand, a million, a billion possible mice"
"So they're dead," said Eckels. "So what?"
"So what?" Travis snorted quietly. "Well, what about the
foxes that'll need those mice to survive? For want of ten
mice, a fox dies. For want of ten foxes, a lion starves. For
want of a lion, all manner of insects, vultures, infinite 
billions of life forms are thrown into chaos and destruction.
Eventually it all boils down to this: fifty-nine million years
later, a cave man, one of a dozen on the entire world, goes
hunting wild boar or saber-tooth tiger for food. But you,
friend, have stepped on all the tigers in that region. By
stepping on one single mouse. So the cave man starves. And
the cave man, please note, is not just any expendable man,
no I He is an entire future nation. From his loins would have
sprung ten sons. From their loins one hundred sons, and thus
onward to a civilisation. Destroy this one man, and you
destroy a race, a people, an entire history of life. It is
comparable to slaying some of Adam's grandchildren. The stomp
of your foot, on one mouse, could start an earthquake, the
effects of which could shake our earth and destinies down
through Time, to their very foundations. With the death
of that one cave man, a billion others yet unborn are
throttled in the womb. Perhaps Rome never rises on its
seven hills. Perhaps Europe is forever a dark forest, and
only Asia waxes healthy and teeming. Step on a mouse and
you crush the Pyramids. Step on a mouse and you leave
your print, like a Grand Canyon, across Eternity. Queen
Elizabeth might never be born, Washington might not cross
the Delaware, there might never be a United States at all.
So be careful. Stay on the Path, Never step off!"
"I see," said Eckels. "Then it wouldn't pay for us even to
touch the grass?"
"Correct. Crushing certain plants could add up infinitesimally. 
A little error here would multiply in sixty million
years, all out of proportion. Of course maybe our theory
is wrong.  Maybe Time can't be changed by us. Or maybe
it can be changed only in little subtle ways. A dead mouse
here makes an insect imbalance there, a population 
disproportion later, a bad harvest further on, a depression, mass
starvation, and, finally, a change in social temperament in
far-flung countries. Something much more subtle, like that.
Perhaps only a soft breath, a whisper, a hair, pollen on the
air, such a slight, slight change that unless you looked close
you wouldn't see it. Who knows? Who really can say he
knows? We don't know. We're guessing. But until we do
know for certain whether our messing around in Time can
make a big roar or a little rustle in history, we're being
damned careful. This Machine, this Path, your clothing and
bodies, were sterilised, as you know, before the journey. We
wear these oxygen helmets so we can't introduce our 
bacteria into an ancient atmosphere."
"How do we know which animals to shoot?"
"They're marked with red paint," said Travis. "Today, before
our journey, we sent Lesperance here back with the
Machine. He came to this particular era and followed
certain animals."
"Studying them?"
"Right," said Lesperance. "I track them through their
entire existence, noting which of them lives longest. Very few.
How many times they mate. Not often. Life's short. When
I find one that's going to die when a tree falls on him, or
one that drowns in a tar pit, I note the exact hour, minute,
and second. I shoot a paint bomb. It leaves a red patch
on his hide. We can't miss it. Then I correlate our arrival
in the Past so that we meet -the Monster not more than two
minutes before he would have died anyway. This way, we
kill only animals with no future, that are never going to
mate again. You see how careful we are?"
"But if you came back this morning in Time," said Eckels
eagerly, "you must've bumped into us, our Safari] How did
it turn out? Was it successful? Did all of us get through-
alive?"
Travis and Lesperance gave each other a look.
"That'd be a paradox," said the latter. "Time doesn't
permit that sort of mess a man meeting himself. When such
occasions threaten, Time steps aside. Like an airplane
hitting an air pocket. You felt the Machine jump just before
we stopped? That was us passing ourselves on the way
back to the Future. We saw nothing. There's no way of
telling if this expedition was a success, if we got our 
monster, or whether all of us meaning you, Mr. Eckels, got out
alive."
Eckels smiled palely.
"Cut that," said Travis sharply. "Everyone on his feet!"
They were ready to leave the Machine.
The jungle was high and the jungle was broad and the
jungle was the entire world forever and forever. Sounds
like music and sounds like flying tents filled the sky, and
those were pterodactyls soaring with cavernous grey wings,
gigantic bats out of a delirium and a night fever. Eckels,
balanced on the narrow Path, aimed his rifle playfully.
"Stop that!" said Travis. "Don't even aim for fun, damn
it! If your gun should go off"
Eckels flushed. "Where's our Tyrannosaurus?"
Lesperance checked his wrist watch. "Up ahead. Well
bisect his trail in sixty seconds. Look for the red paint, for
Christ's sake. Don't shoot till we give the word. Stay on
the Path. Stay on the path
They moved forward in the wind of morning.
"Strange," murmured Eckels. "Up ahead, sixty million
years, Election Day over. Keith made President. Everyone
celebrating. And here we are, a million years lost, and they
don't exist. The things we worried about for months, a
life-time, not even born or thought about yet."
"Safety catches off, everyone!" ordered Travis. "You, first
shot, Eckels. Second, Billings. Third, Kramer."
"I've hunted tiger, wild boar, buffalo, elephant, but Jesus,
this is it," said Eckels. "I'm shaking like a kid."
"Ah," said Travis.
Everyone stopped.
Travis raised his hand. "Ahead," he whispered. "In the
mist. There he is. There's His Royal Majesty now."
The jungle was wide and full of twitterings, rustlings,
murmurs, and sighs.
Suddenly it all ceased, as if someone had shut a door.
Silence.
A sound of thunder.
Out of the mist, one hundred yards away, came
Tyrannosaurus Rex.
"Jesus God," whispered Eckels.
"Shit"
It came on great oiled, resilient, striding legs. It lowered
thirty feet above half of the trees, a great evil god, folding
its delicate watchmaker's claws close to its oily reptilian
chest. Each lower leg was a piston, a thousand pounds of
white bone, sunk in thick ropes of muscle, sheathed over
in a gleam of pebbled skin like the mail of a terrible
warrior, Each thigh was a ton of meat, ivory, and steel mesh.
And from the great breathing cage of the upper body those
two delicate arms dangled out front, arms with hands
which might pick up and examine men like toys, while the
snake neck coiled. And the head itself, a ton of sculptured
stone, lifted easily upon the sky. Its mouth gaped, exposing
a fence of teeth like daggers. Its eyes rolled, ostrich eggs,
empty of all expression save hunger. It closed its mouth in
a death grin. It ran, its pelvic bones crushing aside trees
and bushes, its taloned feet clawing damp earth, leaving
prints six inches deep wherever it settled its weight. It ran
with a gliding ballet step, far too poised and balanced for
its ten tons. It moved into a sunlit arena warily, its 
beautiful reptile hands feeling the air.
"My God!" Eckels twitched his mouth. "It could reach
up and grab the moon."
"Shit" Travis jerked angrily. "He hasn't seen us yet."
"It  can't  be  killed."  Eckels  pronounced  this  verdict
quietly, as if there could be no argument. He had weighed
the evidence and this was his considered opinion. The
rifle in his hands seemed a cap gun.  "We were fools  to
come. This is impossible."
"Shut up!" hissed Travis.
"Nightmare."
"Turn around," commanded Travis. "Walk quietly to
the Machine. We'll remit one-half your fee."
"I didn't realise it would be this big," said Eckels. "I
miscalculated, that's all. And now I want out."
"It sees us!"
"There's the red paint on its chest!"
The Thunder Lizard raised itself. Its armoured flesh 
glittered like a thousand green coins. The coins, crusted with
slime, steamed. In the slime, tiny insects wriggled, so that
the entire body seemed to twitch and undulate, even while
the monster itself did not move. It exhaled. The stink of
raw flesh blew down the wilderness.
"Get me out of here," said Eckels. "It was never like this
before, I was always sure I'd come through alive, I had
good guides, good safaris, and safety. This time, I figured
wrong. I've met my match and admit it. This is too much
for me to get hold of."
"Don't run," said Lesperance. "Turn around. Hide in the
Machine."
"Yes." Eckels seemed to be numb. He looked at his feet
as if trying to make them move. He gave a grunt of
helplessness.
"Eckels"
He took a few steps, blinking, shuffling.
"Not that way!"
The Monster, at the first motion, lunged forward with
a terrible scream. It covered one hundred yards in four
seconds. The rifles jerked up and blazed fire. A windstorm
from the beast's mouth engulfed them in the stench of slime
and old blood. The Monster roared, teeth glittering with
sun.
Eckels, not looking back, walked blindly to the edge of
the Path, his gun limp in his arms, stepped off the Path, and
walked, not knowing it, in the jungle. His feet sank into
green moss. His legs moved him, and he felt alone and
remote from the events behind.
The rifles cracked again. Their sound was lost in shriek
and lizard thunder. The great lever of the reptile's tail
swung up, lashed sideways. Trees exploded in clouds of
leaf and branch. The Monster twitched its jeweller's hands
down to fondle at the men, to twist them in half, to crush
them like berries, to cram them into its teeth and its screaming 
throat. Its boulder-stone eyes levelled with the men.
They saw themselves mirrored. They fired at the metallic
eyelids and the blazing black iris.
Like a stone idol, like a mountain avalanche, 
Tyrannosaurs fell. Thundering, it clutched trees, pulled them with
it.  It  wrenched  and  tore  the  metal  Path,  The  men  flung
themselves back and away. The body hit, ten tons of cold
flesh and stone. The guns fired. The Monster lashed its
armoured tail, twitched its snake jaws, and lay still. A fount
of blood spurted from its throat. Somewhere inside, a sac
of fluids burst. Sickening gushes drenched the hunters. They
stood, red and glistening.
The thunder faded.
The jungle was silent. After the avalanche, a green peace.
After the nightmare, morning.
Billings and Kramer sat on the pathway and threw up.
Travis and Lesperance stood with smoking rifles, cursing
steadily.
In the Time Machine, on his face, Eckels lay shivering.
He had found his way back to the Path, climbed into the
Machine.
Travis came walking, glanced at Eckels, took cotton
gauze from a metal box, and returned to the others, who
were sitting on the Path.
"Clean up."
They wiped the blood from their helmets. They began
to curse too. The Monster lay, a hill of solid flesh. Within,
you could hear the sighs and murmurs as the furthest 
chambers of it died, the organs malfunctioning, liquids running
a final instant from pocket to sac to spleen, everything
shutting off, closing up forever. It was like standing by a
wrecked locomotive or a steam shovel at quitting time, all
valves being released or levered tight. Bones cracked; the
tonnage of its own flesh, off balance, dead weight, snapped
the delicate forearms, caught underneath. The meat settled,
quivering.
Another cracking sound. Overhead, a gigantic tree branch
broke from its heavy mooring, fell. It crashed upon the
dead beast with finality.
"There." Lesperance checked his watch. "Right on time.
That's the giant tree that was scheduled to fall and kill
this animal originally." He glanced at the two hunters.
"You want the trophy picture?"
"What?"
"We can't take a trophy back to the Future. The body
has to stay right here where it would have died originally,
so the insects, birds, and bacteria can get at it, as they were
intended to. Everything in balance. The body stays. But
we can take a picture of you standing near it."
The two men tried to think, but gave up, shaking their
heads.
They let themselves be led along the metal Path. They
sank wearily into the Machine cushions. They gazed back
at the ruined Monster, the stagnating mound, where already
strange reptilian birds and golden insects were busy at the
steaming armour.
A sound on the floor of the Time Machine stiffened them.
Eckels sat there, shivering.
"I'm sorry," he said at last.
"Get up!" cried Travis.
Eckels got up.
"Go out on that Path alone," said Travis. He had his rifle
pointed. "You're not coming back in the Machine. We're
leaving you here!"
Lesperance seized Travis' arm. "Wait"
"Stay out of this!" Travis shook his hand away. "This son
of a bitch nearly killed us. But it isn't that so much. Hell, no.
It's his shoes Look at them! He ran off the Path. My God,
that ruins us I Christ knows how much we'll forfeit. Tens of
thousands of dollars of insurance We guarantee no one
leaves the Path. He left it. Oh, the damn fool! Ill have to
report to the government. They might revoke our license
to travel. God knows what he's done to Time, to History!"
"Take it easy, all he did was kick up some dirt."
"How do we know?" cried Travis. "We don't know anything!
It's all a damn mystery! Get out there, Eckels!"
Eckels fumbled his shirt. "Ill pay anything. A hundred
thousand dollars!"
Travis glared at Eckels' chequebook and spat. "Go out
there. The Monster's next to the Path. Stick your arms up
to your elbows in his mouth. Then you can come back with
us."
"That's unreasonable!"
"The Monsters dead, you yellow bastard. The bullets!
The bullets can't be left behind. They don't belong in the
Past; they might change something. Here's my knife. Dig
them out!"
The jungle was alive again, full of the old tremorings
and bird cries. Eckels turned slowly to regard that primeval
garbage dump, that hill of nightmares and terror. After a
long time, like a sleepwalker, he shuffled out along the Path.
He returned, shuddering, five minutes later, his arms
soaked and red to the elbows. He held out his hands. Each
held a number of steel bullets. Then he fell. He lay where
he fell, not moving.
"You didn't have to make him do that," said Lesperance.
"Didn't I? It's too early to tell." Travis nudged the still
body. "He'll live. Next time he won't go hunting game like
this. Okay." He jerked his thumb wearily at Lesperance.
"Switch on. Let's go home."
1492.     1776.     1812.
They cleaned their hands and faces. They changed their
caking shirts and pants. Eckels was up and around again,
not speaking. Travis glared at him for a full ten minutes.
"Don't look at me," cried Eckels. "I haven't done anything."
"Who can tell?"
"Just ran off the Path, that's all, a little mud on my shoes
what do you want me to get down and pray?"
"We might need it. I'm warning you, Eckels, I might kill
you yet. I've got my gun ready."
"I'm innocent. I've done nothing]"
1999.     2000.     2055.
The Machine stopped.
"Get out," said Travis.
The room was there as they had left it. But not the same
as they had left it. The same man sat behind the same desk.
But the same man did not quite sit behind the same desk.
Travis looked around swiftly. "Everything okay here?" he
snapped.
"Fine. Welcome home!"
Travis did not relax. He seemed to be looking at the very
atoms of the air itself, at the way the sun poured through
the one high window.
"Okay, Eckels, get out. Don't ever come back."
Eckels could not move.
"You heard me," said Travis. "What're you staring at?"
Eckels stood smelling of the air, and there was a thing to
the air, a chemical taint so subtle, so slight, that only a faint
cry of his subliminal senses warned him it was there. The
colours, white, grey, blue, orange, in the wall, in the furniture,
in the sky beyond the window, were . . . were . . .
And there was a feel. His flesh twitched. His hands twitched.
He stood drinking the oddness with the pores of his body.
Somewhere, someone must have been screaming one of
those whistles that only a dog can hear. His body screamed
silence in return. Beyond this room, beyond this wall, beyond
this man who was not quite the same man seated at
this desk that was not quite the same desk . . . lay an entire
world of streets and people. What sort of world it was now,
there was no telling. He could feel them moving there, 
beyond the walls, almost, like so many chess pieces blown
in a dry wind. . . .
But the immediate thing was the sign painted on the
office wall, the same sign he had read earlier today on first
entering.
Somehow, the sign had changed:
TYME SEFARI INC.
SEFARIS TU ANY YEEH EN THE PAST.
YU NAIM THE ANIMALL.
WEE TAEK YOU THAIR.
YU SHOOT ITT.
Eckels felt himself tall into a chair. He fumbled crazily
at the thick slime on his boots. He held up a clod of dirt,
trembling. "No, it can't be. Not a little thing like that. No!"
Embedded in the mud, glistening green and gold and
black, was a butterfly, very beautiful, and very dead.
"Not a little thing like that! Not a butterfly!" cried
Eckels.
It fell to the floor, an exquisite thing, a small thing that
could upset balances and knock down a line of small
dominoes and then big dominoes and then gigantic dominoes,
all down the years across Time.  Eckels' mind whirled.  It
couldn't change things. Killing one butterfly couldn't be that
important! Could it?
His face was cold. His mouth trembled, asking: "Who
won the presidential election yesterday?"
The man behind the desk laughed. "You joking? You
know damn well. Deutscher, of course! Who else? Not that
damn weakling Keith. We got an iron man now, a man
with guts, by God!" The official stopped. "What's wrong?"
Eckels moaned. He dropped to his knees. He scrabbled
at the golden butterfly with shaking fingers. "Can't we," he
pleaded to the world, to himself, to the officials, to the
Machine, "can't we take it back, can't we make it alive
again? Can't we start over? Can't we"
He did not move. Eyes shut, he waited, shivering. He
heard Travis breathe loud in the room; he heard Travis
shift his rifle, click the safety catch, and raise the weapon.
There was a sound of thunder.



Bradbury, Ray - The October Game.txt
Ray Bradbury. The October GameOcenite etot tekstNe chital10987654321Ray Bradbury.
The October Game
He put the gun back into the bureau drawer and shut the drawer.
No, not that way. Louise wouldn't suffer. It was very important
that this thing have, above all duration. Duration through
imagination. How to prolong the suffering? How, first of all, to bring
it about? Well.
The man standing before the bedroom mirror carefully fitted his
cuff-links together. He paused long enough to hear the children run by
switftly on the street below, outside this warm two-storey house, like
so many grey mice the children, like so many leaves.
By the sound of the children you knew the calendar day. By their
screams you knew what evening it was. You knew it was very late in the
year. October. The last day of October, with white bone masks and cut
pumpkins and the smell of dropped candle wax.
No. Things hadn't been right for some time. October didn't help
any. If anything it made things worse. He adjusted his black bow-tie.
If this were spring, he nodded slowly, quietly, emotionlessly, at his
image in the mirror, then there might be a chance. But tonight all the
world was burning down into ruin. There was no green spring, none of
the freshness, none of the promise.
There was a soft running in the hall. "That's Marion", he told
himself. "My'little one". All eight quiet years of her. Never a word.
Just her luminous grey eyes and her wondering little mouth. His
daughter had been in and out all evening, trying on various masks,
asking him which was most terrifying, most horrible. They had both
finally decided on the skeleton mask. It was 'just awful!' It would
'scare the beans' from people!
Again he caught the long look of thought and deliberation he gave
himself in the mirror. He had never liked October. Ever since he first
lay in the autumn leaves before his granmother's house many years ago
and heard the wind and sway the empty trees. It has made him cry,
without a reason. And a little of that sadness returned each year to
him. It always went away with spring. But, it was different tonight.
There was a feeling of autumn coming to last a million years. There
would be no spring.
He had been crying quietly all evening. It did not show, not a
vesitge of it, on his face. It was all hidden somewhere and it
wouldn't stop.
The rich syrupy smell of sweets filled the bustling house. Louise
had laid out apples in new skins of toffee; there were vast bowls of
punch fresh-mixed, stringed apples in each door, scooped, vented
pumpkins peering triangularly from each cold window. There was a water
tub in the centre of the living room, waiting, with a sack of apples
nearby, for dunking to begin. All that was needed was the catalyst,
the impouring of children, to start the apples bobbing, the srtinged
apples to penduluming in the crowded doors, the sweets to vanish, the
halls to echo with fright or delight, it was all the same.
Now, the house was silent with preparation. And just a little more
than that.
Louise had managed to be in every other room save the room he was
in today. It was her very fine way of intimating, Oh look Mich, see
how busy I am! So busy that when you walk into a room I'm in there's
always something I need to do in another room! Just see how I dash
about!
For a while he had played a little game with her, a nasty childish
game. When she was in the kitchen then he came to the kitchen
saying, 'I need a glass of water.' After a moment, he standing,
drinking water, she like a crystal witch over the caramel brew
bubbling like a prehistoric mudpot on the stove, she said, 'Oh, I must
light the pumpkins!' and she rushed to the living room to make the
pumpkins smile with light. He came after, smiling, 'I must get my
pipe.' 'Oh, the cider!' she had cried, running to the dining room.
Page 1
Bradbury, Ray - The October Game.txt
'I'll check the cider,' he had said. But when he tried following she
ran to the bathroom and locked the door.
He stood outside the bathroom door, laughing strangely and
senselessly, his pipe gone cold in his mouth, and then, tired of the
game, but stubborn, he waited another five minutes. There was not a
sound from the bath. And lest she enjoy in any way knowing that he
waited outside, irritated, he suddenly jerked about and walked
upstairs, whistling merrily.
At the top of the stairs he had waited. Finally he had heard the
bathroom door unlatch and she had come out and life below-stairs and
resumed, as life in a jungle must resume once a terror has passed on
away and the antelope return to their spring.
Now, as he finished his bow-tie and put his dark coat there was a
mouse-rustle in the hall. Marion appeared in the door, all skeletons
in her disguise.
'How do I look, Papa?'
'Fine!'
From under the mask, blonde hair showed. From the skull sockets
small blue eyes smiled. He sighed. Marion and Louise, the two silent
denouncers of his virility, his dark power. What alchemy had there
been in Louise that took the dark of a dark man and bleached the dark
brown eyes and black hair and washed and bleached the ingrown baby all
during the period before birth until the child was born, Marion,
blonde, blue-eyed, ruddy-cheeked? Sometimes he suspected that Louise
had conceived the child as an idea, completely asexual, an immaculate
conception of contemptuous mind and cell. As a firm rebuke to him she
had produced a child in her own image, and, to top it, she had somehow
fixed the doctor so he shook his head and said, 'Sorry, Mr Wilder,
your wife will never have another child. This is the last one.'
'And I wanted a boy,' Mich had said eight years ago.
He almost bent to take hold of Marion now, in her skull mask. He
felt an inexplicable rush of pity for her, because she had never had a
father's love, only the crushing, holding love of a loveless mother.
But most of all he pitied himself, that somehow he had not made the
most of a bad birth, enjoyed his daughter for herself, regardless of
her not being dark and a son and like himself. Somewhere he had missed
out. Other things being equal, he would have loved the child. But
Louise hadn't wanted a child, anyway, in the first place. She had been
frightened of the idea of birth. He had forced the child on her, and
from that night, all through the year until the agony of the birth
itself, Louise had lived in another part of the house. She had
expected to die with the forced child. It had been very easy for
Louise to hate this husband who so wanted a son that he gave his only
wife over to the mortuary.
But - Louise had lived. And in truimph! Her eyes, the day he came
to the hospital, were cold. I'm alive they said. And I have a blonde
daughter! Just look! And when he had put out a hand to touch, the
mother had turned away to conspire with her new pink daughter-child -
away from that dark forcing murderer. It had all been so beautifully
ironic. His selfishness deserved it.
But now it was October again. There had been other Octobers and
when he thought of the long winter he had been filled with horror year
after year to think of the endless months mortared into the house by
an insane fall of snow, trapped with a woman and child, neither of
whom loved him, for months on end. During the eight years there had
been respites. In spring and summer you got out, walked, picknicked;
these were desperate solutions to the desperate problem of a hated
man.
But, in winter, the hikes and picnics and escapes fell away with
leaves. Life, like a tree, stood empty, the fruit picked, the sap run
to earth. Yes, you invited people in, but people were hard to get in
winter with blizzards and all. Once he had been clever enough to save
for a Florida trip. They had gone south. He had walked in the open.
But now, the eighth winter coming, he knew things were finally at
Page 2
Bradbury, Ray - The October Game.txt
an end. He simply could not wear this one through. There was an acid
walled off in him that slowly had eaten through tissue and bone over
the years, and now, tonight, it would reach the wild explosive in him
and all would be over!
There was a mad ringing of the bell below. In the hall, Louise went
to see. Marion, without a word, ran down to greet the first arrivals.
There were shouts and hilarity.
He walked to the top of the stairs.
Louise was below, taking cloaks. She was tall and slender and
blonde to the point of whiteness, laughing down upon the new children.
He hesitated. What was all this? The years? The boredom of living?
Where had it gone wrong? Certainly not with the birth of the child
alone. But it had been a symbol of all their tensions, he imagined.
His jealousies and his business failures and all the rotten rest of
it. Why didn't he just turn, pack a suitcase, and leave? No. Not
without hurting Louise as much as she had hurt him. It was simple as
that. Divorce wouldn't hurt her at all. It would simply be an end to
numb indecision. If he thought divorce would give her pleasure in any
way he would stay married the rest of his life to her, for damned
spite. No he must hurt her. Figure some way, perhaps, to take Marion
away from her, legally. Yes. That was it. That would hurt most of all.
To take Marion.
'Hello down there!' He descended the stairs beaming.
Louise didn't look up.
'Hi, Mr Wilder!'
The children shouted, waved, as he came down.
By ten o'clock the doorbell had stopped ringing, the apples were
bitten from stringed doors, the pink faces were wiped dry from the
apple bobbling, napkins were smeared with toffee and punch, and he,
the husband, with pleasant efficiency had taken over. He took the
party right out of Louise's hands. He ran about talking to the twenty
children and the twelve parents who had come and were happy with the
special spiked cider he had fixed them. He supervised pin the tail on
the donkey, spin the bottle, musical chairs, and all the rest, amid
fits of shouting laughter. Then, in the triangular-eyed pumpkin shine,
all house lights out, he cried, 'Hush! Follow me!' tiptoeing towards
the cellar.
The parents, on the outer periphery of the costumed riot, commented
to each other, nodding at the clever husband, speaking to the lucky
wife. How well he got on with children, they said.
The children, crowded after the husband, squealing.
'The cellar!' he cried. 'The tomb of the witch!'
More squealing. He made a mock shiver. 'Abandon hope all ye who
enter here!'
The parents chuckled.
One by one the children slid down a slide which Mich had fixed up
from lengths of table-section, into the dark cellar. He hissed and
shouted ghastly utterances after them. A wonderful wailing filled dark
pumpkin-lighted house. Everybody talked at once. Everybody but Marion.
She had gone through all the party with a minimum of sound or talk; it
was all inside her, all the excitement and joy. What a little troll,
he thought. With a shut mouth and shiny eyes she had watched her own
party, like so many serpentines thrown before her.
Now, the parents. With laughing reluctance they slid down the short
incline, uproarious, while little Marion stood by, always wanting to
see it all, to be last. Louise went down without help. He moved to aid
her, but she was gone even before he bent.
The upper house was empty and silent in the candle-shine. Marion
stood by the slide. 'Here we go,' he said, and picked her up.
They sat in a vast circle in the cellar. Warmth came from the
distant bulk of the furnace. The chairs stood in a long line along
each wall, twenty squealing children, twelve rustling relatives,
alternatively spaced, with Louise down at the far end, Mich up at this
end, near the stairs. He peered but saw nothing. They had all grouped
Page 3
Bradbury, Ray - The October Game.txt
to their chairs, catch-as-you-can in the blackness. The entire
programme from here on was to be enacted in the dark, he as Mr
Interlocutor. There was a child scampering, a smell of damp cement,
and the sound of the wind out in the October stars.
'Now!' cried the husband in the dark cellar. 'Quiet!'
Everybody settled.
The room was black black. Not a light, not a shine, not a glint of
an eye.
A scraping of crockery, a metal rattle.
'The witch is dead,' intoned the husband.
'Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,' said the children.
'The witch is dead, she has been killed, and here is the knife she
was killed with.' He handed over the knife. It was passed from hand to
hand, down and around the circle, with chuckles and little odd cries
and comments from the adults.
'The witch is dead, and this is her head,' whispered the husband,
and handed an item to the nearest person.
'Oh, I know how this game is played,' some child cried, happily, in
the dark. 'He gets some old chicken innards from the icebox and hands
them around and says, "These are her innards!" And he makes a clay
head and passes it for her head, and passes a soup bone for her arm.
And he takes a marble and says, "This is her eye!" And he takes some
corn and says, "This is her teeth!" And he takes a sack of plum
pudding and gives that and says, "This is her stomach!&" I know how
this is played!'
'Hush, you'll spoil everything,' some girl said.
'The witch came to harm, and this is her arm,' said Mich.
'Eeeeeeeeeeee!'
The items were passed and passed, like hot potatoes, around the
cirle. Some children screamed, wouldn't touch them. Some ran from
their chairs to stand in the centre of the cellar until the grisly
items had passed.
'Aw, it's only chicken insides,' scoffed a boy. 'Come back, Helen!'
Shot from hand to hand, with small scream after scream, the items
went down, down, to be followed by another and another.
'The witch cut apart, and this is her heart,' said the husband.
Six or seven items moving at once through the laughing, trembling
dark.
Louise spoke up. 'Marion, don't be afraid; it's only play."
Marion didn't say anything.
'Marion?, asked Louise. 'Are you afraid?'
Marion didn't speak.
'She's all right,' said the husband. 'She's not afraid.'
On and on the passing, the screams, the hilarity.
The autumn wind sighed about the house. And he, the husband stood
at the head of the dark cellar, intoning the words, handing out the
items.
'Marion?' asked Louise again, from far across the cellar.
Everybody was talking.
'Marion?' called Louise.
Everybody quieted.
'Marion, answer me, are you afraid?'
Marion didn't answer.
The husband stood there, at the bottom of the cellar steps.
Louise called 'Marion, are you there?'
No answer. The room was silent.
'Where's Marion?' called Louise.
'She was here', said a boy.
'Maybe she's upstairs.'
'Marion!'
No answer. It was quiet.
Louise cried out, 'Marion, Marion!'
'Turn on the lights,' said one of the adults.
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Bradbury, Ray - The October Game.txt
The items stopped passing. The children and adults sat with the
witch's items in their hands.
'No.' Louise gasped. There was a scraping of her chair, wildly, in
the dark. 'No. Don't turn on the lights, oh, God, God, God, don't turn
them on, please, don't turn on the lights, don't!.Louise was shrieking
now. The entire cellar froze with the scream.
Nobody moved.
Everyone sat in the dark cellar, suspended in the suddenly frozen
task of this October game; the wind blew outside, banging the house,
the smell of pumpkins and apples filled the room with the smell of the
objects in their fingers while one boy cried, 'I'll go upstairs and
look!' and he ran upstairs hopefully and out around the house, four
times around the house, calling, 'Marion, Marion, Marion!' over and
over and at last coming slowly down the stairs into the waiting
breathing cellar and saying to the darkenss, 'I can't find her.'
Then ...... some idiot turned on the lights.
Last-modified: Wed, 15 Mar 2000 19:15:18 GMT
Ocenite etot tekstNe chital10987654321
Page 5



Bradbury, Ray - The Foghorn.txt
THE BEAST FROM 20,000 FATHOMSRay Bradbury: The Foghorn
ELECTRONIC VERSION 1.0 (Apr 05 00). If you find and correct errors in the text,
please update the version number by 0.1 and redistribute.
OUT there in the cold water, far from land, we waited every night for the coming
of the fog, and it came, and we oiled the brass machinery and lit the fog light
up in the stone tower. Feeling like two birds in the grey sky, McDunn and I sent
the light touching out, red, then white, then red again, to eye the lonely
ships. And if they did not see our light, then there was always our Voice, the
great deep cry of our Fog Horn shuddering through the rags of mist to startle
the gulls away like decks of scattered cards and make the waves turn high and
foam.
"It's a lonely life, but you're used to it now, aren't you?" asked McDunn.
"Yes," I said. "You're a good talker, thank the Lord."
"Well, it's your turn on land tomorrow," he said, smiling, "to dance the ladies
and drink gin."
"What do you think McDunn, when I leave you out here alone?"
"On the mysteries of the sea." McDunn lit his pipe. It was a quarter past seven
of a cold November evening, the heat on, the light switching its tail in two
hundred directions, the Fog Horn bumbling in the high throat of the tower. There
wasn't a town for a hundred miles down the coast, just a road, which came lonely
through dead country to the sea, with few cars on it, a stretch of two miles of
cold water out to our rock, and rare few ships.
"The mysteries of the sea," said McDunn thoughtfully. "You know, the ocean’s the
biggest damned snowflake ever? It rolls and swells a thousand shapes and
colours, no two alike. Strange. One night, years ago, I was here alone, when all
of the fish of the sea surfaced out there. Something made them swim in and lie
in the bay, sort of trembling and staring up at the tower light going red,
white, red, white across them so I could see their funny eyes. I turned cold.
They were like a big peacock's tail, moving out there until midnight. Then,
without so much as a sound, they slipped away, the million of them was gone. I
kind of think maybe, in some sort of way, they came all those miles to worship.
Strange. But think how the tower must look to them, standing seventy feet above
the water, the God-light flashing out from it, and the tower declaring itself
with a monster voice. They never came back, those fish, but don't you think for
a while they thought they were in the Presence?"
I shivered. I looked out at the long grey lawn of the sea stretching away into
nothing and nowhere.
"Oh, the sea's full." McDunn puffed his pipe nervously, blinking. He had been
nervous all day and hadn't said why. "For all our engines and so called
submarines, it'll be ten thousand centuries before we set foot on the real
bottom of the sunken lands, in the fairy kingdoms there, and know real terror.
Think of it, it's still the year 300,000 Before Christ down under there. While
we've paraded around with trumpets, lopping off each other's countries and
heads, they have been living beneath the sea twelve miles deep and cold in a
time as old as the beard of a comet."
"Yes, it's an old world."
"Come on. I got something special I been saving up to tell you."
We ascended the eighty steps, talking and taking our time. At the top, McDunn
switched off the room lights so there'd be no reflection in the plate glass. The
great eye of the light was humming, turning easily in its oiled socket. The Fog
Horn was blowing steadily, once every fifteen seconds.
"Sounds like an animal, don't it?" McDunn nodded to himself. "A big lonely
animal crying in the night. Sitting here on the edge of ten billion years
calling out to the Deeps, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here. And the Deeps do answer,
yes, they do. You been here now for three months, Johnny, so I better prepare
you. About this time of year," he said, studying the murk and fog, "something
comes to visit the lighthouse."
"The swarms of fish like you said?"
"No, this is something else. I've put off telling you because you might think
I'm daft. But tonight's the latest I can put it off, for if my calendar's marked
right from last year, tonight's the night it comes. I won t go into detail,
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Bradbury, Ray - The Foghorn.txt
you'll have to see it yourself. Just sit down there. If you want, tomorrow you
can pack your duffel and take the motorboat into land and get your car parked
there at the dinghy pier on the cape and drive on back to some little inland
town and keep your lights burning nights. I won't question or blame you. It's
happened three years now, and this is the only time anyone's been here with me
to verify it. You wait and watch."
Half an hour passed with only a few whispers between us. When we grew tired
waiting, McDunn began describing some of his ideas to me. He had some theories
about the Fog Horn itself.
"One day many years ago a man walked along and stood in the sound of the ocean
on a cold sunless shore and said, 'We need a voice to call across the water, to
warn ships; I'll make one. I'll make a voice like all of time and all of the fog
that ever was; I'll make a voice that is like an empty bed beside you all night
long, and like an empty house when you open the door, and like trees in autumn
with no leaves. A sound like the birds flying south, crying, and a sound like
November wind and the sea on the hard, cold shore. I'll make a sound that's so
alone that no one can miss it, that whoever hears it will weep in their souls,
and hearths will seem warmer, and being inside will seem better to all who hear
it in the distant towns. I'll make me a sound and an apparatus and they'll call
it a Fog Horn and whoever hears it will know the sadness of eternity and the
briefness of life.’"
The Fog Horn blew.
"I made up that story," said McDunn quietly, "to try to explain why this thing
keeps coming back to the lighthouse every year. The Fog Horn calls, I think, it
comes. . ."
"But-" I said.
"Sssst!" said McDunn. "There!" He nodded out to the Deeps.
Something was swimming towards the lighthouse tower.
It was a cold night, as I have said; the high tower was cold, the light coming
and going, and the Fog Horn calling and calling through the ravelling mist. You
couldn't see far and you couldn't see plain, but there was the deep sea moving
on its way about the night earth, flat and quiet, the colour of grey mud, and
here were the two of us alone in the high tower, and there, far out at first,
was a ripple, followed by a wave, a rising, a bubble, a bit of froth. And then,
from the surface of the cold sea came a head, a large head, dark-coloured, with
immense eyes, and then a neck. And then--not a body--but more neck and more! The
head rose a full forty feet above the water on a slender and beautiful dark
neck. Only then did the body, like a little island of black coral and shells and
crayfish, drip up from the subterranean. There was a flicker of tail. In all,
from head to tip of tail, I estimated the monster at ninety or a hundred feet.
I don't know what I said. I said something.
"Steady, boy, steady," whispered McDunn.
"It's impossible!" I said.
"No, Johnny, we're impossible. It's like it always was ten million years ago. It
hasn't changed. It's us and the land that've changed, become impossible. Us!"
It swam slowly and with a great dark majesty out in the icy waters, far away.
The fog came and went about it, momentarily erasing its shape. One of the
monster eyes caught and held and flashed back our immense light, red, white,
red, white, like a disc held high and sending a message in primaeval code. It
was as silent as the fog through which it swam.
"It's a dinosaur of some sort--" I crouched down, holding to the stair rail.
"Yes, one of the tribe."
"But they died out!"
"No, only hid away in the Deeps. Deep, deep down in the deepest Deeps. Isn't
that a word now, Johnny, a real word, it says so much: the Deeps. There's all
the coldness and darkness and deepness in the world in a word like that."
"What'll we do?"
"Do? We got our job, we can't leave. Besides, we're safer here than in any boat
trying to get to land. That thing's as big as a destroyer and almost as swift."
"But here, why does it come here?"
The next moment I had my answer.
The Fog Horn blew.
And the monster answered.
A cry came across a million years of water and mist. A cry so anguished and
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Bradbury, Ray - The Foghorn.txt
alone that it shuddered in my head and my body. The monster cried out at the
tower. The Fog Horn blew. The monster roared again. The Fog Horn blew. The
monster opened its great toothed mouth and the sound that came from it was the
sound of the Fog Horn itself. Lonely and vast and far away. The sound of
isolation, a viewless sea, a cold night, apartness. That was the sound.
"Now," whispered McDunn, "do you know why it comes here?"
I nodded.
"All year long, Johnny, that poor monster there lying far out, a thousand miles
at sea, and twenty miles deep maybe, biding its time, perhaps it’s a million
years old, this one creature. Think of it, waiting a million years; could you
wait that long? Maybe it's the last of its kind. I sort of think that's true.
Anyway, here come men on land and build this lighthouse, five years ago. And set
up their Fog Horn and sound it and sound it out towards the place where you bury
yourself in sleep and sea memories of a world where there were thousands like
yourself, but now you're alone, all alone in a world not made for you, a world
where you have to hide."
"But the sound of the Fog Horn comes and goes, comes and goes, and you stir from
the muddy bottom of the Deeps, and your eyes open like the lenses of two-foot
cameras and you move, slow, slow, for you have the ocean sea on your shoulders,
heavy. But that Fog Horn comes through a thousand miles of water, faint and
familiar, and the furnace in your belly stokes up, and you begin to rise, slow,
slow. You feed yourself on great slakes of cod and minnow, on rivers of
jellyfish, and you rise slow through the autumn months, through September when
the fogs started, through October with more fog and the horn still calling you
on, and then, late in November, after pressurizing yourself day by day, a few
feet higher every hour, you are near the surface and still alive, You've got to
go slow; if you surfaced all at once you'd explode. So it takes you all of three
months to surface, and then a number of days to swim through the cold waters to
the lighthouse. And there you are, out there, in the night, Johnny, the biggest
damn monster in creation. And here's the lighthouse calling to you, with a long
neck like your neck sticking way up out of the water, and a body like your body,
and, most important of all, a voice like your voice. Do you understand now,
Johnny, do you understand?"
The Fog Horn blew.
The monster answered.
I saw it all, I knew it all--the million years of waiting alone, for someone to
come back who never came back. The million years of isolation at the bottom of
the sea, the insanity of time there, while the skies cleared of reptile-birds,
the swamps dried on the continental lands, the sloths and sabre-tooths had their
day and sank in tar pits, and men ran like white ants upon the hills.
The Fog Horn blew.
"Last year," said McDunn, "that creature swam round and round, round and round,
all night. Not coming too near, puzzled, I'd say. Afraid, maybe. And a bit angry
after coming all this way. But the next day, unexpectedly, the fog lifted, the
sun came out fresh, the sky was as blue as a painting. And the monster swam off
away from the heat and the silence and didn't come back. I suppose it's been
brooding on it for a year now, thinking it over from every which way."
The monster was only a hundred yards off now, it and the Fog Horn crying at each
other. As the lights hit them, the monster's eyes were fire and ice, fire and
ice.
"That's life for you," said McDunn. "Someone always waiting for someone who
never comes home. Always someone loving some thing more than that thing loves
them. And after a while you want to destroy whatever that thing is, so it can't
hurt you no more."
The monster was rushing at the lighthouse.
The Fog Horn blew.
"Let's see what happens," said McDunn.
He switched the Fog Horn off.
The ensuing minute of silence was so intense that we could hear our hearts
pounding in the glassed area of the tower, could hear the slow greased turn of
the light.
The monster stopped and froze. Its great lantern eyes blinked. Its mouth gaped.
It gave a sort of rumble, like a volcano. It twitched its head this way and
that, as if to seek the sounds now dwindled off into the fog. It peered at the
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Bradbury, Ray - The Foghorn.txt
lighthouse. It rumbled again. Then its eyes caught fire. It reared up, threshed
the water, and rushed at the tower, its eyes filled with angry torment.
"McDunn!" I cried. "Switch on the horn!"
McDunn fumbled with the switch. But even as he flicked it on, the monster was
rearing up. I had a glimpse of its gigantic paws, fish-skin glittering in webs
between the finger-like projections, clawing at the tower. The huge eye on the
right side of its anguished head glittered before me like a cauldron into which
I might drop, screaming. The tower shook. The Fog Horn cried; the monster cried.
It seized the tower and gnashed at the glass, which shattered in upon us.
McDunn seized my arm. "Downstairs!"
The tower rocked, trembled, and started to give. The Fog Horn and the monster
roared. We stumbled and half fell down the stairs. "Quick!"
We reached the bottom as the tower buckled down towards us. We ducked under the
stairs into the small stone cellar. There were a thousand concussions as the
rocks rained down; the Fog Horn stopped abruptly. The monster crashed upon the
tower. The tower fell. We knelt together, McDunn and I, holding tight, while our
world exploded.
Then it was over, and there was nothing but darkness and the wash of the sea on
the raw stones.
That and the other sound.
"Listen," said McDunn quietly. "Listen."
We waited a moment. And then I began to hear it. First a great vacuumed sucking
of air, and then the lament, the bewilderment, the loneliness of the great
monster, folded over and upon us, above us, so that the sickening reek of its
body filled the air, a stone's thickness away from our cellar. The monster
gasped and cried. The tower was gone. The light was gone. The thing that had
called to it across a million years was gone. And the monster was opening its
mouth and sending out great sounds. The sounds of a Fog Horn, again and again.
And ships far at sea, not finding the light, not seeing anything, but passing
and hearing late that night, must've thought: There it is, the lonely sound, the
Lonesome Bay horn. All's well. We've rounded the cape.
And so it went for the rest of that night.
The sun was hot and yellow the next afternoon when the rescuers came out to dig
us from our stoned-under cellar.
"It fell apart, is all," said Mr. McDunn gravely. "We had a few bad knocks from
the waves and it just crumbled." He pinched my arm.
There was nothing to see. The ocean was calm, the sky blue. The only thing was a
great algaic stink from the green matter that covered the fallen tower stones
and the shore rocks. Flies buzzed about. The ocean washed empty on the shore.
The next year they built a new lighthouse, but by that time I had a job in the
little town and a wife and a good small warm house that glowed yellow on autumn
nights, the doors locked, the chimney puffing smoke. As for McDunn, he was
master of the new lighthouse, built to his own specifications out of
steel-reinforced concrete. "Just in case," he said.
The new lighthouse was ready in November. I drove down alone one evening late
and parked my car and looked across the grey waters and listened to the new horn
sounding, once, twice, three, four times a minute far out there, by itself.
The monster?
It never came back.
"It's gone away," said McDunne "It's gone back to the Deeps. It's learned you
can't love anything too much in this world. It's gone into the deepest Deeps to
wait another million years. Ah, the poor thing! Waiting out there, and waiting
out there, while man comes and goes on this pitiful little planet. waiting and
waiting."
I sat in my car, listening. I couldn't see the lighthouse or the light standing
out in Lonesome Bay. I could only hear the Horn, the Horn, the Horn. It sounded
like the monster calling.
I sat there wishing there was something I could say.
Page 4



Bradbury, Ray - The Pendulum.txt
PENDULUM
by Ray Bradbury and Henry Hasse
Prisoner of Time was he, outlawed from Life and Death alike the strange,
brooding creature who watched the ages roll by and waited half fearfully
for--eternity?
"I THINK," shrilled Erjas, "that this is our most intriguing discovery on any of
the worlds we have yet visited!"
His wide, green-shimmering wings fluttered, his beady bird eyes flashed
excitement. His several companions bobbed their heads in agreement, the
greenish-gold down on their slender necks ruffling softly. They were perched on
what had once been a moving sidewalk but was now only a twisted ribbon of
wreckage overlooking the vast expanse of a ruined city.
"Yes," Erjas continued, "it's baffling, fantastic! It--it has no reason for
being." He pointed unnecessarily to the object of their attention, resting on
the high stone plaza a short distance away. "Look at it! Just a huge tubular
pendulum hanging from that towering framework! And the machinery, the coggery
which must have once sent it swinging . . . I flew up there a while ago to
examine it, but it's hopelessly corroded."
"But the head of the pendulum!" another of the bird creatures said awedly. "A
hollow chamber--transparent, glassite--and that awful thing staring out of
it...."
Pressed close to the inner side of the pendulum head was a single human
skeleton. The whitened skull seemed to stare out over the desolate, crumbling
city as though regarding with amusement the heaps of powdery masonry and the
bare steel girders that drooped to the ground, giving the effect of huge spiders
poised to spring.
"It's enough to make one shudder--the way that thing grins! Almost as though--"
"The grin means nothing!" Erjas interrupted annoyedly. "That is only the
skeletal remains of one of the mammal creatures who once, undoubtedly, inhabited
this world." He shifted nervously from one spindly leg to the other, as he
glanced again at the grinning skull. "And yet, it does seem to be
almost--triumphant! And why are there no more of them around? Why is he the only
one . . . and why is he encased in that fantastic pendulum head?"
"We shall soon know," another of the bird creatures trilled softly, glancing at
their spaceship which rested amidst the ruins, a short distance away. "Orfleew
is even now deciphering the strange writing in the book he salvaged from the
pendulum head. We must not disturb him."
"How did he get the book? I see no opening in that transparent chamber."
"The long pendulum arm is hollow, apparently in order to vacuum out the cell.
The book was crumbling with age when Orfleew got it out, but he saved most of
it."
"I wish he would hurry! Why must he--"
"Shh! Give him time. Orfleew will decipher the writing; he has an amazing genius
for alien languages."
"Yes. I remember the metal tablets on that tiny planet in the constellation--"
"Here he comes now!"
"He's finished already!"
"We shall soon know the story...."
The bird creatures fairly quivered as Orfleew appeared in the open doorway of
their spaceship, carefully carrying a sheaf of yellowed pages. He waved to them,
spread his wings and soared outward. A moment later he alighted beside his
companions on their narrow perch.
"The language is simple," Orfleew told them, "and the story is a sad one. I will
read it to you and then we must depart, for there is nothing we can do on this
world."
They edged closer to him there on the metal strand, eagerly awaiting the first
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Bradbury, Ray - The Pendulum.txt
words. The pendulum hung very straight and very still on a windless world, the
transparent head only a few feet above the plaza floor. The grinning skull still
peered out as though hugely amused or hugely satisfied. Orfleew took one more
fleeting look at it . . . then he opened the crumbling notebook and began to
read.
MY NAME John Layeville. I am known as "The Prisoner of Time." People, tourists
from all over the world, come to look at me in my swinging pendulum. School
children, on the electrically moving sidewalks surrounding the plaza, stare at
me in childish awe. Scientists, studying me, stand out there and train their
instruments on the swinging pendulum head. Oh, they could stop the swinging,
they could release me--but now I know that will never happen. This all began as
a punishment for me, but now I am an enigma to science. I seem to be immortal.
It is ironic.
A punishment for me! Now, as through a mist, my memory spins back to the day
when all this started. I remember I had found a way to bridge time gaps and
travel into futurity. I remember the time device I built. No, it did not in any
way resemble this pendulum--my device was merely a huge box-like affair of
specially treated metal and glassite, with a series of electric rotors of my own
design which set up conflicting, but orderly, fields of stress. I had tested it
to perfection no less than three times, but none of the others in the Council of
Scientists would believe me. They all laughed. And Leske laughed. Especially
Leske, for he has always hated me.
I offered to demonstrate, to prove. I invited the Council to bring others--all
the greatest minds in the scientific world. At last, anticipating an amusing
evening at my expense, they agreed.
I shall never forget that evening when a hundred of the world's greatest
scientists gathered in the main Council laboratory. But they had come to jeer,
not to cheer. I did not care, as I stood on the platform beside my ponderous
machine and listened to the amused murmur of voices. Nor did I care that
miliions of other unbelieving eyes were watching by television, Leske having
indulged in a campaign of mockery against the possibility of time travel. I did
not care, because I knew that in a few minutes Leske's campaign would be turned
into victory for me. I would set my rotors humming, I would pull the control
switch--and my machine would flash away into a time dimension and back again, as
I had already seen it do three times. Later we would send a man out in the
machine.
The moment arrived. But fate had decreed it was to be my moment of doom.
Something went wrong, even now I do not know what or why. Perhaps the television
concentration in the room affected the stress of the time-fields my rotors set
up. The last thing I remember seeing, as I reached out and touched the main
control switch, were the neat rows of smiling white faces of the important men
seated in the laboratory. My hand came down on the switch....
Even now I shudder, remembering the vast mind-numbing horror of that moment. A
terrific sheet of electrical flame, greenish and writhing and alien, leaped
across the laboratory from wall to wall, blasting into ashes everything in its
path!
Before millions of television witnesses I had slain the world's greatest
scientists!
No, not all. Leske and myself and a few others who were behind the machine
escaped with severe burns. I was least injured of all, which seemed to increase
the fury of the populace against me. I was swept to a hasty trial, faced jeering
throngs who called out for my death.
"Destroy the time machine," was the watchword, "and destroy this murderer with
it!"
Murderer! I had only sought to help humanity. In vain I tried to explain the
accident, but popular resentment is a thing not to be reasoned with.
One day, weeks later, I was taken from my secret prison and hurried, under heavy
guard, to the hospital room where Leske lay. He raised himself on one arm and
his smouldering eyes looked at me. That's all I could see of him, just his eyes;
the rest of him was swathed in bandages. For a moment he just looked; and if
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Bradbury, Ray - The Pendulum.txt
ever I saw insanity, but a cunning insanity, in a man's eyes, it was then,
For about ten seconds he looked, then with a great effort he pointed a bulging,
bandaged arm at me.
"No, do not destroy him," he mumbled to the authorities gathered around.
"Destroy his machine, yes, but save the parts. I have a better plan, a fitting
one, for this man who murdered the world's greatest scientists. "
I remembered Leske's old hatred of me, and I shuddered.
IN THE weeks that followed, one of my guards told me with a sort of malicious
pleasure of my time device being dismantled, and secret things being done with
it. Leske was directing the operations from his bed.
At last came the day when I was led forth and saw the huge pendulum for the
first time. As I looked at it there, fantastic and formidible, I realized as
never before the extent of Leske's insane revenge. And the populace seemed
equally vengeful, equally cruel, like the ancient Romans on a gladiatorial
holiday. In a sudden panic of terror, I shrieked and tried to leap away.
That only amused the people who crowded the electrical sidewalks around the
plaza. They laughed and shrieked derisively.
My guards thrust me into the glass pendulum head and I lay there quivering,
realizing the irony of my fate. This pendulum had been built from the precious
metal and glassite of my own time device! It was intended as a monument to my
slaughtering! I was being put on exhibition for life within my own executioning
device! The crowd roared thunderous approval, damning me.
Then a little click and a whirring above me, and my glass prison began to move.
It increased in speed. The arc of the pendulum's swing lengthened. I remember
how I pounded at the glass, futilely screaming, and how my hands bled. I
remember the rows of faces becoming blurred white blobs before me....
I did not become insane, as I had thought at first I would. I did not mind it so
much; that first night. I couldn't sleep but it wasn't uncomfortable. The lights
of the city were comets with tails that pelted from right to left like foaming
fireworks. But as the night wore on I felt a gnawing in my stomach that grew
worse until I became very sick. The next day was the same and I couldn't eat
anything. In the days that followed they never stopped the pendulum, not once.
They slid my food down the hollow pendulum stem in little round parcels that
plunked at my feet. The first time I attempted eating I was unsuccessful; it
wouldn't stay down. In desperation I hammered against the cold glass with my
fists until they bled again, and I cried hoarsely, but heard nothing but my own
weak words muffled in my ears.
After an infinitude of misery, I began to eat and even sleep while traveling
back and forth this way . . . they had allowed me small glass loops on the floor
with which I fastened myself down at night and slept a soundless slumber,
without sliding. I even began to take an interest in the world outside, watching
it tip one way and another, back and forth and up and down, dizzily before my
eyes until they ached. The monotonous movements never changed. So huge was the
pendulum that it shadowed one hundred feet or more with every majestic sweep of
its gleaming shape, hanging from the metal intestines of the machine overhead. I
estimated that it took four or five seconds for it to traverse the arc.
On and on like this--for how long would it be? I dared not think of it....
DAY by day I began to concentrate on the gaping, curiosity-etched faces
outside--faces that spoke soundless words, laughing and pointing at me, the
prisoner of time, traveling forever nowhere. Then after a time--was it weeks or
months or years?--the town people ceased to come and it was only tourists who
came to stare....
Once a day the attendants sent down my food, once a day they sent down a tube to
vacuum out the cell. The days and nights ran together in my memory until time
came to mean very little to me....
IT WAS not until I knew, inevitably, that I was doomed forever to this swinging
chamber, that the thought occurred to me to leave a written record. Then the
idea obsessed me and I could think of nothing else.
I had noticed that once a day an attendant climbed into the whirring coggery
overhead in order to drop my food down the tube. I began to tap code signals
along the tube, a request for writing materials. For days, weeks, months, my
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Bradbury, Ray - The Pendulum.txt
signals remained unanswered. I became infuriated--and more persistent.
Then, at long last, the day when not only my packet of food came down the tube,
but with it a heavy notebook, and writing materials! I suppose the attendant
above became weary at last of my tappings! I was in a perfect ecstasy of joy at
this slight luxury.
I have spent the last few days in recounting my story, without any undue
elaboration. I am weary now of writing, but I shall continue from time to
time--in the present tense instead of the past.
My pendulum still swings in its unvarying arc. I am sure it has been not months,
but years! I am accustomed to it now. I think if the pendulum were to stop
suddenly, I should go mad at the motionless existence!
(Later): There is unusual activity on the electrically moving sidewalks
surrounding me. Men are coming, scientists, and setting up peculiar looking
instruments with which to study me at a distance. I think I know the reason. I
guessed it some time ago. I have not recorded the years, but I suspect that I
have already outlived Leske and all the others! I know my cheeks have developed
a short beard which suddenly ceased growing, and I feel a curious, tingling
vitality. I feel that I shall outlive them all! I cannot account for it, nor can
they out there, those scientists who now examine me so scrupulously. And they
dare not stop my pendulum, my little world, for fear of the effect it may have
on me!
(Still later): These men, these puny scientists, have dropped a microphone down
the tube to me! They have actually remembered that I was once a great scientist,
encased here cruelly. In vain they have sought the reason for my longevity; now
they want me to converse with them, giving my symptoms and reactions and
suggestions! They are perplexed, but hopeful, desiring the secret of eternal
life to which they feel I can give them a clue. I have already been here two
hundred years, they tell me; they are the fifth generation.
At first I said not a word, paying no attention to the microphone. I merely
listened to their babblings and pleadings until I weared of it. Then I grasped
the microphone and looked up and saw their tense, eager faces, awaiting my
words.
"One does not easily forgive such an injustice as this," I shouted. "And I do
not believe I shall be ready to until five more generations."
Then I laughed. Oh, how I laughed.
"He's insane!" I heard one of them say: "The secret of immortality may lie
somehow with him, but I feel we shall never learn it; and we dare not stop the
pendulum--that might break the timefield, or whatever it is that's holding him
in thrall...."
(MUCH LATER): It has been a longer time than I care to think, since I wrote
those last words. Years . . . I know not how many. I have almost forgotten how
to hold a pencil in my fingers to write.
Many things have transpired, many changes have come in the crazy world out
there.
Once I saw wave after wave of planes, so many that they darkened the sky, far
out in the direction of the ocean, moving toward the city; and a host of planes
arising from here, going out to meet them; and a brief, but lurid and
devastating battle in which planes fell like leaves in the wind; and some planes
triumphantly returning, I know not which ones...
But all that was very long ago, and it matters not to me. My daily parcels of
food continue to come down the pendulem stem; I suspect that it has become a
sort of ritual, and the inhabitants of the city, whoever they are now, have long
since forgotten the legend of why I was encased here. My little world continues
to swing in its arc, and I continue to observe the puny little creatures out
there who blunder through their brief span of life.
Already I have outlived generations! Now I want to outlive the very last one of
them! I shall!
. . . Another thing, too, I have noticed. The attendants who daily drop the
parcels of food for me, and vacuum out the cell, are robots! Square, clumsy,
ponderous and four-limbed things--unmistakably metal robots, only vaguely human
in shape.
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Bradbury, Ray - The Pendulum.txt
. . . I begin to see more and more of these clumsy robots about the city. Oh,
yes, humans too--but they only come on sight-seeing tours and pleasure jaunts
now; they live, for the most part, in luxury high among the towering buildings.
Only the robots occupy the lower level now, doing all the menial and mechanical
tasks necessary to the operation of the city. This, I suppose, is progress as
these self centered beings have willed it.
. . . robots are becoming more complicated, more human in shape and movements .
. . and more numerous . . . uncanny ... I have a premonition....
(Later): It has come! I knew it! Vast, surging activity out there . . . the
humans, soft from an aeon of luxury and idleness, could not even escape . . .
those who tried, in their rocket planes, were brought down by the pale, rosy
electronic beams of the robots . . . others of the humans, more daring or
desperate, tried to sweep low over the central robot base and drop thermite
bombs--but the robots had erected an electronic barrier which hurled the bombs
back among the planes, causing inestimable havoc....
The revolt was brief, but inevitably successful. I suspect that all human life
except mine has been swept from the earth. I begin to see, now, how cunningly
the robots devised it.
The humans had gone forward recklessly and blindly to achieve their Utopia; they
had designed their robots with more and more intricacy, more and more finesse,
until the great day when they were able to leave the entire operation of the
city to the robots--under the guidance perhaps of one or two humans. But
somewhere, somehow, one of those robots was imbued with a spark of intelligence;
it began to think, slowly but precisely; it began to add unto itself, perhaps
secretly; until finally it had evolved itself into a terribly efficient unit of
inspired intelligence, a central mechanical Brain which planned this revolt.
At least, so I pictured it. Only the robots are left now--but very intelligent
robots. A group of them came yesterday and stood before my swinging pendulum and
seemed to confer among themselves. They surely must recognize me as one of the
humans, the last one left. Do they plan to destroy me too?
No. I must have become a legend, even among the robots. My pendulum still
swings. They have now encased the operating mechanism beneath a protective
glassite dome. They have erected a device whereby my daily parcel of food is
dropped to me mechanically. They no longer come near me; they seem to have
forgotten me.
This infuriates me! Well, I shall outlast them too! After all, they are but
products of the human brain . . . I shall outlast everything even remotely
human! I swear it!
(MUCH LATER): Is this the end? I have seen the end of the reign of the robots!
Yesterday, just as the sun was crimsoning in the west, I perceived the hordes of
things that came swarming out of space, expanding in the heavens . . . alien
creatures fluttering down, great gelatinous masses of black that clustered
thickly over everything....
I saw the robot rocket planes criss-crossing the sky on pillars of scarlet
flame, blasting into the black masses with their electronic beams--but the alien
things were unperturbed and unaffected! Closer and closer they pressed to earth,
until the robot rockets began to dart helplessly for shelter.
To no avail. The silvery robot ships began crashing to earth in ghastly
devastation, like drops of mercury splashing on tiles....
And the black gelatinous masses came ever closer, to spread over the earth, to
crumble the city and corrode whatever metal was left exposed.
Except my pendulum. They came dripping darkly down over it, over the glassite
dome which protects the whirring wheels and roaring bowels of the mechanism. The
city has crumbled, the robots are destroyed, but my pendulum still moves, the
only moving thing on this world now . . . and I know that fact puzzles these
alien things and they will not be content until they have stopped it....
This all happened yesterday. I am lying very still now, watching them. Most of
them are gathering out there over the ruins of the city, preparing to leave--
except a few of the black quivering things that are still hanging to my
pendulum, almost blotting out the sunlight; and a few more above, near the
operating machinery, concentrating those same emanations by which they corroded
the robots. They are determined to do a complete job here. I know that in a few
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Bradbury, Ray - The Pendulum.txt
minutes they will begin to take effect, even through the glassite shield. I
shall continue to write until my pendulum stops swinging. .... it is happening
now. I can feel a peculiar grinding and grating in the coggery above. Soon my
tiny glassite world will cease its relentless arc.
I feel now only a fierce elation flaming ithin me, for after all, this is my
victory ! I have conquered over the men who planned this punishment for me, and
over countless other generations, and over the final robots themselves! There is
nothing more I desire except annihilation, and I am sure that will come
automatically when my pendulum ceases, bringing me to a state of unendurable
motionlessness....
It is coming now. Those black, gelatinous shapes above are drifting away to join
their companions. The mechanism is grinding raucously. My arc is narrowing ...
smaller ... smaller....
I feel ... so strange....
THE END
Page 6



Rej Bredberi. Vel'd (original in english)Ocenite etot tekstNe
chital10987654321Rej Bredberi. Vel'd (original in english)
Ray Bradbury. The Veldt
"George, I wish you'd look at the nursery."
"What's wrong with it?"
"I don't know."
"Well, then."
"I just want you to look at it, is all, or call a psychologist
in to
look at it."
"What would a psychologist want with a nursery?"
"You know very well what he'd want." His wife paused in the
middle of
the kitchen and watched the stove busy humming to itself, making supper
for
four.
"It's just that the nursery is different now than it was."
"All right, let's have a look."
They walked down the hall of their soundproofed Happylife Home,
which
had cost them thirty thousand dollars installed, this house which
clothed
and fed and rocked them to sleep and played and sang and was good to
them.
Their approach sensitized a switch somewhere and the nursery light
flicked
on when they came within ten feet of it. Similarly, behind them, in
the
halls, lights went on and off as they left them behind, with a
soft
automaticity.
"Well," said George Hadley.
They stood on the thatched floor of the nursery. It was forty
feet
across by forty feet long and thirty feet high; it had cost half
again as
much as the rest of the house. "But nothing's too good for our
children,"
George had said.
The nursery was silent. It was empty as a jungle glade at hot
high
noon. The walls were blank and two dimensional. Now, as George and
Lydia
Hadley stood in the center of the room, the walls began to purr and
recede
into crystalline distance, it seemed, and presently an African
veldt
appeared, in three dimensions, on all sides, in color reproduced to
the
final pebble and bit of straw. The ceiling above them became a deep sky
with
a hot yellow sun.
George Hadley felt the perspiration start on his brow.
"Let's get out of this sun," he said. "This is a little too real.
But I
don't see anything wrong."
"Wait a moment, you'll see," said his wife.
Now the hidden odorophonics were beginning to blow a wind of
odor at
the two people in the middle of the baked veldtland. The hot straw
smell of
lion grass, the cool green smell of the hidden water hole, the great
rusty
smell of animals, the smell of dust like a red paprika in the hot air.
And
now the sounds: the thump of distant antelope feet on grassy sod, the
papery
rustling of vultures. A shadow passed through the sky. The shadow
flickered
on George Hadley's upturned, sweating face.
"Filthy creatures," he heard his wife say.
"The vultures."
"You see, there are the lions, far over, that way. Now they're on
their
way to the water hole. They've just been eating," said Lydia. "I don't
know
what."
"Some animal." George Hadley put his hand up to shield off the
burning
light from his squinted eyes. "A zebra or a baby giraffe, maybe."
"Are you sure?" His wife sounded peculiarly tense.
"No, it's a little late to be sure," be said, amused. "Nothing
over
there I can see but cleaned bone, and the vultures dropping for
what's
left."
"Did you bear that scream?" she asked.
'No."
"About a minute ago?"
"Sorry, no."
The lions were coming. And again George Hadley was filled
with
admiration for the mechanical genius who had conceived this room. A
miracle
of efficiency selling for an absurdly low price. Every home should have
one.
Oh, occasionally they frightened you with their clinical accuracy,
they
startled you, gave you a twinge, but most of the time what fun for
everyone,
not only your own son and daughter, but for yourself when you felt
like a
quick jaunt to a foreign land, a quick change of scenery. Well, here it
was!
And here were the lions now, fifteen feet away, so real, so
feverishly
and startlingly real that you could feel the prickling fur on your hand,
and
your mouth was stuffed with the dusty upholstery smell of their
heated
pelts, and the yellow of them was in your eyes like the yellow of
an
exquisite French tapestry, the yellows of lions and summer grass, and
the
sound of the matted lion lungs exhaling on the silent noontide, and
the
smell of meat from the panting, dripping mouths.
The lions stood looking at George and Lydia Hadley with
terr