by Jerry eBooks
Mr. Simms was glaring across the dining room at them.
She made a face at him.
Mr. Simms advanced among the tables.
“Mr. and Mrs. Travis,” he called. “I thought we were breakfasting together, alone.”
“Sorry,” said William.
“Sit down, pal,” said Mr. Melton. “Any friend of theirs is a pal of mine.”
Mr. Simms sat. The film people talked loudly, and while they talked, Mr. Simms said quietly, “I hope you slept well.”
“Did you?”
“I’m not used to spring mattresses,” replied Mr. Simms wryly. “But there are compensations. I stayed up half the night trying new cigarettes and foods. Odd, fascinating. A whole new spectrum of sensation, these ancient vices.”
“We don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Susan.
“Always the play acting,” Simms laughed. “It’s no use. Nor is this stratagem of crowds. I’ll get you alone soon enough. I’m immensely patient.”
“Say,” Mr. Melton broke in, his face flushed, “is this guy giving you any trouble?”
“It’s all right.”
“Say the word and I’ll give him the bum’s rush.”
Melton turned back to yell at his associates. In the laughter, Mr. Simms went on: “Let us come to the point. It took me a month of tracing you through towns and cities to find you, and all of yesterday to be sure of you. If you come with me quietly, I might be able to get you off with no punishment, if you agree to go back to work on the hydrogen-plus bomb.”
“Science this guy talks at breakfast!” observed Mr. Melton, half listening.
Simms went on, imperturbably. “Think it over. You can’t escape. If you kill me, others will follow you.”
“We don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Stop it!” cried Simms irritably. “Use your intelligence! You know we can’t let you get away with this escape. Other people in the year 2155 might get the same idea and do what you’ve done. We need people.”
“To fight your wars,” said William at last.
“Bill!”
“It’s all right, Susan. We’ll talk on his terms now. We can’t escape.”
“Excellent,” said Simms. “Really, you’ve both been incredibly romantic, running away from your responsibilities.”
“Running away from horror.”
“Nonsense. Only a war.”
“What are you guys talking about?” asked Mr. Melton.
Susan wanted to tell him. But you could only speak in generalities. The psychological block in your mind allowed that. Generalities, such as Simms and William were now discussing.
“Only the war,” said William. “Half the world dead of leprosy bombs!”
“Nevertheless,” Simms pointed out, “the inhabitants of the Future resent you two hiding on a tropical isle, as it were, while they drop off the cliff into hell. Death loves death, not life. Dying people love to know that others die with them. It is a comfort to learn you are not alone in the kiln, in the grave. I am the guardian of their collective resentment against you two.”
“Look at the guardian of resentments!” said Mr. Melton to his companions.
“The longer you keep me waiting, the harder it will go for you. We need you on the bomb project, Mr. Travis. Return now—no torture. Later, we’ll force you to work, and after you’ve finished the bomb, we’ll try a number of complicated new devices on you, sir.”
“I’ve a proposition,” said William. “I’ll come back with you if my wife stays here alive, safe, away from that war.”
Mr. Simms considered it. “All right. Meet me in the plaza in ten minutes. Pick me up in your car. Drive me to a deserted country spot. I’ll have the Travel Machine pick us up there.”
“Bill!” Susan held his arm tightly.
“Don’t argue.” He looked over at her. “It’s settled.” To Simms: “One thing. Last night you could have gotten in our room and kidnaped us. Why didn’t you?”
“Shall we say that I was enjoying myself?” replied Mr. Simms languidly, sucking his new cigar. “I hate giving up this wonderful atmosphere, this sun, this vacation. I regret leaving behind the wine and the cigarettes. Oh, how I regret It. The plaza then, in ten minutes. Your wife will be protected and may stay here as long as she wishes. Say your good-bys.”
Mr. Simms arose and walked out.
“There goes Mr. Big Talk!” yelled Mr. Melton at the departing gentleman. He turned and looked at Susan. “Hey. Someone’s crying. Breakfast’s no time for people to cry. Now is it?”
At nine-fifteen Susan stood on the balcony of their room, gazing down at the plaza. Mr. Simms was seated there, his neat legs crossed, on a delicate bronze bench. Biting the tip from a cigar, he lit it tenderly.
Susan heard the throb of a motor, and far up the street, out of a garage and down the cobbled hill, slowly, came William in his car.
The car picked up speed. Thirty, now forty, now fifty miles an hour. Chickens scattered before it.
Mr. Simms took off his white panama hat and mopped his pink forehead, put his hat back on, and then saw the car.
It was rushing sixty miles an hour, straight on for the plaza.
“William!” screamed Susan.
The car hit the low plaza curb, thundering; it jumped up, sped across the tiles toward the green bench where Mr. Simms now dropped his cigar, shrieked, flailed his hands, and was hit by the car. His body flew up and up in the air, and down and down, crazily, into the street.
On the far side of the plaza, one front wheel broken, the car stopped. People were running.
Susan went in and closed the balcony doors.
They came down the Official Palace steps together, arm in arm, their faces pale, at twelve noon.
“Adiós, señor,” said the mayor behind them. “Señora.”
They stood in the plaza where the crowd was pointing at the blood.
“Will they want to see you again?” asked Susan.
“No, we went over and over it. It was an accident. I lost control of the car. I wept for them. God knows I had to get my relief out somewhere. I felt like weeping. I hated to kill him. I’ve never wanted to do anything like that in my life.”
“They won’t prosecute you?”
“They talked about it, but no. I talked faster. They believe me. It was an accident. It’s over.”
“Where will we go? Mexico City? Uruapan?”
“The car’s in the repair shop. It’ll be ready at four this afternoon. Then we’ll get the hell out.”
“Will we be followed? Was Simms working alone?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have a little head start on them, I think.”
The film people were coming out of the hotel as they approached. Mr. Melton hurried up, scowling. “Hey I heard what happened. Too bad. Everything okay now? Want to get your minds off it? We’re doing some preliminary shots up the street. You want to watch, you’re welcome. Come on, do you good.”
They went.
They stood on the cobbled street while the film camera was being set up. Susan looked at the road leading down and away, and the highway going to Acapulco and the sea, past pyramids and ruins and little adobe towns with yellow walls, blue walls, purple walls and flaming bougainvillea, and she thought, We shall take the roads, travel in clusters and crowds, in markets, in lobbies, bribe police to sleep near, keep double locks, but always the crowds, never alone again, always afraid the next person who passes may be another Simms. Never knowing if we’ve tricked and lost the Searchers. And always up ahead, in the Future, they’ll wait for us to be brought back, waiting with their bombs to burn us and disease to rot us, and their police to tell us to roll over, turn around, jump through the hoop! And so we’ll keep running through the forest, and we’ll never ever stop or sleep well again in our lives.
A crowd gathered to watch the film being made. And Susan watched the crowd and the streets.
“Seen anyone suspicious?”
“No. Wha
t time is it?”
“Three o’clock. The car should be almost ready.”
The test film was finished at three forty-five. They all walked down to the hotel, talking. William paused at the garage. “The car’ll be ready at six,” he said, coming out, worried.
“But no later than that?”
“It’ll be ready, don’t worry.”
In the hotel lobby they looked around for other men traveling alone, men who resembled Mr. Simms, men with new haircuts and too much cigarette smoke and cologne smell about them, but the lobby was empty. Going up the stairs, Mr. Melton said, “Well, it’s been a long hard day. Who’d like to put a header on it? You folks? Martini? Beer?”
“Maybe one.”
The whole crowd pushed into Mr. Melton’s room and the drinking began.
“Watch the time,” said William.
Time, thought Susan. If only they had time. All she wanted was to sit in the plaza all of a long bright day in October, with not a worry or a thought, with the sun on her face and arms, her eyes closed, smiling at the warmth, and never move. Just sleep in the Mexican sun, and sleep warmly and easily and slowly and happily for many, many days . . .
Mr. Melton opened the champagne.
“To a very beautiful lady, lovely enough for films,” he said, toasting Susan. “I might even give you a test.”
She laughed.
“I mean it,” said Melton. “You’re very nice. I could make you a movie star.”
“And take me to Hollywood?” cried Susan.
“Get the hell out of Mexico, sure!”
Susan glanced at William and he lifted an eyebrow and nodded. It would be a change of scene, clothing, locale, name, perhaps; and they would be traveling with eight other people, a good shield against any interference from the Future.
“It sounds wonderful,” said Susan.
She was feeling the champagne now. The afternoon was slipping by; the party was whirling about her. She felt safe and good and alive and truly happy for the first time in many years.
“What kind of film would my wife be good for?” asked William, refilling his glass.
Melton appraised Susan. The party stopped laughing and listened.
“Well, I’d like to do a story of suspense,” said Melton. “A story of a man and wife, like yourselves.”
“Go on.”
“Sort of a war story, maybe,” said the director, examining the color of his drink against the sunlight.
Susan and William waited.
“A story about a man and wife, who live in a little house on a little street in the year 2155, maybe,” said Melton. “This is ad lib, understand. But this man and wife are faced with a terrible war, super-plus hydrogen bombs, censorship, death in that year, and—here’s the gimmick—they escape into the Past, followed by a man who they think is evil, but who is only trying to show them what their duty is.”
William dropped his glass to the floor.
Mr. Melton continued: “And this couple take refuge with a group of film people whom they learn to trust. Safety in numbers, they say to themselves.”
Susan felt herself slip down into a chair. Everyone was watching the director. He took a little sip of wine. “Ah, that’s a fine wine. Well, this man and woman, it seems, don’t realize how important they are to the Future. The man, especially, is the keystone to a new bomb metal. So the Searchers, let’s call them, spare no trouble or expense to find, capture, and take home the man and wife, once they get them totally alone, in a hotel room, where no one can see. Strategy. The Searchers work alone, or in groups of eight. One trick or another will do it. Don’t you think it would make a wonderful film, Susan? Don’t you, Bill?” He finished his drink.
Susan sat with her eyes straight ahead of her.
“Have a drink?” said Mr. Melton.
William’s gun was out and fired three times, and one of the men fell, and the others ran forward. Susan screamed. A hand was clamped to her mouth. Now the gun was on the floor and William was struggling, held.
Mr. Melton said, “Please,” standing there where he had stood, blood showing on his fingers. “Let’s not make matters worse.”
Someone pounded on the hall door.
“Let me in!”
“The manager,” said Mr. Melton dryly. He jerked his head. “Everyone, let’s move!”
“Let me in! I’ll call the police!”
Susan and William looked at each other quickly, and then at the door.
“The manager wishes to come in,” said Mr. Melton. “Quick!”
A camera was carried forward. From it shot a blue light which encompassed the room instantly. It widened out and the people of the party vanished, one by one.
“Quickly!”
Outside the window, in the instant before she vanished, Susan saw the green land and the purple and yellow and blue and crimson walls and the cobbles flowing down like a river, a man upon a burro riding into the warm hills, a boy drinking Orange Crush, she could feel the sweet liquid in her throat, a man standing under a cool plaza tree with a guitar, she could feel her hand upon the strings, and, far away, the sea, the blue and tender sea, she could feel it roll her over and take her in.
And then she was gone. Her husband was gone.
The door burst wide open. The manager and his staff rushed in.
The room was empty.
“But they were just here! I saw them come in, and now—gone!” cried the manager. “The windows are covered with iron grating. They couldn’t get out that way!”
In the late afternoon the priest was summoned and they opened the room again and aired it out, and had him sprinkle holy water through each corner and give it his blessing.
“What shall we do with these?” asked the charwoman.
She pointed to the closet, where there were 67 bottles of chartreuse, cognac, crème de cacao, absinthe, vermouth, tequila, 106 cartons of Turkish cigarettes, and 198 yellow boxes of fifty-cent pure Havana-filler cigars . . .
The World the Children Made
Ray Bradbury
Do you wonder what goes on in your children's minds? The Hadleys did-and they dared enter the forbidden doorway to
“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 veld 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 d
on’t see anything wrong.”
“Wait a moment; you’ll see,” said his wife.
Now the hidden chlorophonics were beginning to blow a wind of odor at the two people in the middle of the baked veldland. 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,” he said, amused. “Nothing over there I can see but cleaned bone, and the vultures dropping for what’s left.”
“Did you hear 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, they 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 yellow 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.
