The Lost Bradbury

by Ray Bradbury

  Kroll walked around the old man in a circle. “You think I’d chance you getting us through the Belt!” He snorted. “What if we got half through and you got potted again!” He stopped, with his back to Nibley. He was thinking. He kept looking over his shoulder at the old man. “I can’t trust you.” He looked out the port at the stars, at where Jupiter shone in space. “And yet—” He looked at the men. “Do you want to turn back?”

  Nobody moved. They didn’t have to answer. They didn’t want to go back. They wanted to go ahead.

  “We’ll keep on going, then,” said Kroll.

  Bruno spoke. “We crew-members should have some say. I say go back. We can’t make it. We’re just wasting our lives.”

  Kroll glanced at him, coolly. “You seem to be alone.” He went back to the port. He rocked on his heels. “It was no accident Nibley got that wine. Somebody planted it, knowing Nibley’s weakness. Somebody who was paid off by the Martian Industrials to keep this ship from going through. This was a clever set-up. The machines were smashed in such a way as to throw suspicion directly on an innocent, well, almost innocent, party. Nibley was just a tool. I’d like to know who handled that tool—”

  Nibley got up, the wrench in his gnarled hand. “I’ll tell you who planted that wine. I been thinking and now—”

  Darkness. A short-circuit. Feet running on the metal deck. A shout. A thread of fire across the darkness. Then a whistling as something flew, hit. Someone grunted.

  The lights came on again. Nibley was at the light controls.

  On the floor, gun in hand, eyes beginning to numb, lay Bruno. He lifted the gun, fired it. The bullet hit Nibley in the stomach.

  Nibley grabbed at the pain. Kroll kicked at Bruno’s head. Bruno’s head snapped back. He lay quietly.

  The blood pulsed out between Nibley’s fingers. He watched it with interest, grinning with pain. “I knew his orbit,” he whispered, sitting down cross-legged on the deck. “When the lights went out I chose my own orbit back to the light switch. I knew where Bruno’d be in the dark. Havin’ a wrench handy I let fly, choosin’ my arc, naturally. Guess he’s got a hard skull, though….”

  * * * *

  They carried carried Nibley to a bunk. Douglas stood over him, dimly, growing older every second. Nibley squinted up. All the men tightened in upon it. Nibley felt their dismay, their dread, their worry, their nervous anger.

  Finally, Kroll exhaled. “Turn the ship around,” he said. “Go back to Mars.”

  The crew stood with their limp hands at their sides. They were tired. They didn’t want to live any more. They just stood with their feet on the deck. Then, one by one, they began to walk away like so many cold, dead men.

  “Hold on,” cried Nibley, weakening. “I ain’t through yet. I got two orbits to fix. I got one to lay out for this ship to Jupiter. And I got to finish out my own separate secret personal orbit. You ain’t turnin’ back nowhere!”

  Kroll grimaced. “Might as well realize it, Grandpa. It takes seven hours to get through the Swarms, and you haven’t another two hours in you.”

  The old man laughed. “Think I don’t know that? Hell! Who’s supposed to know all these things, me or you?”

  “You, Pop.”

  “Well, then, dammit—bring me a bulger!”

  “Now, look—”

  “You heard me, by God—a bulger!”

  “Why?”

  “You ever hear of a thing called triangulation? Well, maybe I won’t live long enough to go with you, but, by all the sizes and shapes of behemoths—this ship is jumpin’ through to Jupiter!”

  Kroll looked at him. There was a breathing silence, a heart beating silence in the ship. Kroll sucked in his breath, hesitated, then smiled a grey smile.

  “You heard him, Douglas. Get him a bulger.”

  “And get a stretcher! And tote this ninety pounds of bone out on the biggest asteroid around here! Got that?”

  “You heard him, Haines! A stretcher! Stand by for maneuvering!” Kroll sat down by the old man. “What’s it all about, Pop? You’re—sober?”

  “Clear as a bell!”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “Redeem myself of my sins, by George! Now get your ugly face away so I can think! And tell them bucks to hurry!”

  Kroll bellowed and men rushed. They brought a space-suit, inserted the ninety pounds of shrill and wheeze and weakness into it—the doctor had finished with his probings and fixings—buckled, zipped and welded him into it. All the while they worked, Nibley talked.

  “Remember when I was a kid. Stood up to that there plate poundin’ out baseballs North, South and six ways from Sundays.” He chuckled. “Used to hit ‘em, and predict which window in what house they’d break!” Wheezy laughter. “One day I said to my Dad, ‘Hey, Dad, a meteor just fell on Simpson’s Garage over in Jonesville.’ ‘Jonesville is six miles from here’, said my father, shakin’ his finger at me. ‘You quit your lyin’, Nibley boy, or I’ll trot you to the woodshed!’”

  “Save your strength,” said Kroll.

  “That’s all right,” said Nibley. “You know the funny thing was always that I lied like hell and everybody said I lied like hell, but come to find out, later, I wasn’t lyin’ at all, it was the truth. I just sensed things.”

  The ship maneuvered down on a windless, empty planetoid. Nibley was carried on a stretcher out onto alien rock.

  “Lay me down right here. Prop up my head so I can see Jupiter and the whole damned Asteroid Belt. Be sure my headphones are tuned neat. There. Now, give me a piece of paper.”

  Nibley scribbled a long weak snake of writing on paper, folded it. “When Bruno comes to, give him this. Maybe he’ll believe me when he reads it. Personal. Don’t pry into it yourself.”

  The old man sank back, feeling pain drilling through his stomach, and a kind of sad happiness. Somebody was singing somewhere, he didn’t know where. Maybe it was only the stars moving on the sky.

  “Well,” he said, clearly. “Guess this is it, children. Now get the hell aboard, leave me alone to think. This is going to be the biggest, hardest, damnedest job of computatin’ I ever latched onto! There’ll be orbits and cross orbits, big balls of fire and little bitty specules, and, by God, I’ll chart ‘em all! I’ll chart a hundred thousand of the damned monsters and their offspring, you just wait and see! Get aboard! I’ll tell you what to do from there on.”

  Douglas looked doubtful.

  Nibley caught the look. “What ever happens,” he cried. “Will be worth it, won’t it? It’s better than turnin’ back to Mars, ain’t it? Well, ain’t it?”

  “It’s better,” said Douglas. They shook hands.

  “Now all of you, get!”

  * * * *

  Nibley watched the ship fire away and his eyes saw it and the Asteroid Swarm and that brilliant point of light that was massive Jupiter. He could almost feel the hunger and want and waiting up there in that star flame.

  He looked out into space and his eyes widened and space came in, opened out like a flower, and already, natural as water flowing, Nibley’s mind, tired as it was, began to shiver out calculations. He started talking.

  “Captain? Take the ship straight out now. You hear?”

  “Fine,” answered the captain.

  “Look at your dials.”

  “Looking.”

  “If number seven reads 132:87, okay. Keep ‘er there. If she varies a point, counteract it on Dial Twenty to 56.90. Keep her hard over for seventy thousand miles, all that is clear so far. Then, after that, a sharp veer in number two direction, over a thousand miles. There’s a big sweep of meteors coming in on that other path for you to dodge. Let me see, let me see—” He figured. “Keep your speed at a constant of one hundred thousand miles. At that rate—check your clocks and watches—in exactly an hour y
ou’ll hit the second part of the Big Belt. Then switch to a course roughly five thousand miles over to number 3 direction, veer again five minutes on the dot later and—”

  “Can you see all those asteroids, Nibley. Are you sure?”

  “Sure. Lots of ‘em. Every single one going every which way! Keep straight ahead until two hours from now, after that last direction of mine—then slide off at an angle toward Jupiter, slow down to ninety thousand for ten minutes, then up to a hundred ten thousand for fifteen minutes. After that, one hundred fifty thousand all the way!”

  Flame poured out of the rocket jets. It moved swiftly away, growing small and distant.

  “Give me a read on dial 67!”

  “Four.”

  “Make it six! And set your automatic pilot to 61 and 14 and 35. Now—everything’s okay. Keep your chronometer reading this way—seven, nine, twelve. There’ll be a few tight scrapes, but you’ll hit Jupiter square on in 24 hours, if you jump your speed to 700,000 six hours from now and hold it that way.”

  “Square on it is, Mr. Nibley.”

  Nibley just lay there a moment. His voice was easy and not so high and shrill any more. “And on the way back to Mars, later, don’t try to find me. I’m going out in the dark on this metal rock. Nothing but dark for me. Back to perihelion and sun for you. Know—know where I’m going?”

  “Where?”

  “Centaurus!” Nibley laughed. “So help me God I am. No lie!”

  He watched the ship going out, then, and he felt the compact, collected trajectories of all the men in it. It was a good feeling to know that he was guiding them. Like in the old days….

  Douglas’ voice broke in again.

  “Hey, Pop. Pop, you still there?”

  A little silence. Nibley felt blood pulsing down inside his suit. “Yep.” he said.

  “We just gave Bruno your little note to read. Whatever it was, when he finished reading it, he went insane.”

  Nibley said, quiet-like. “Burn that there paper. Don’t let anybody else read it.”

  A pause. “It’s burnt. What was it?”

  “Don’t be inquisitive,” snapped the old man. “Maybe I proved to Bruno that he didn’t really exist. To hell with it!”

  The rocket reached its constant speed. Douglas radioed back: “All’s well. Sweet calculating, Pop. I’ll tell the Rocket Officials back at Marsport. They’ll be glad to know about you. Sweet, sweet calculating. Thanks. How goes it? I said—how goes it? Hey, Pop! Pop!”

  Nibley raised a trembling hand and waved it at nothing. The ship was gone. He couldn’t even see the jet-wash now, he could only feel, that hard metal movement out there among the stars, going on and on through a course he had set for it. He couldn’t speak. There was just emotion in him. He had finally, by God, heard a compliment from a mechanic of radar-computators!

  He waved his hand at nothing. He watched nothing moving on and on into the crossed orbits of other invisible nothings. The silence was now complete.

  He put his hand down. Now he had only to chart that one last personal orbit. The one he had wanted to finish only in space and not grounded back on Mars.

  It didn’t take lightning calculation to set it out for certain.

  Life and death were the parabolic ends to his trajectory. The long life, first swinging in from darkness, arcing to the inevitable perihelion, and now moving back out, out and away—

  Into the soft, encompassing dark.

  “By God,” he thought weakly, quietly. “Right up to the last, my reputation’s good. Never fluked a calculation yet, and I never will….”

  He didn’t.

  HOLIDAY

  This Martian tale has not been chronicled, although it was included in the 1965 British anthology of Far Boundaries. “Holiday” was first published in Arkham Sampler in the autumn of 1949.

  * * * *

  Someone suggested wine for dinner. So Charlie fetched a dusty bottle from the cellar and uncorked it.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  “Let’s see.” Bill raised his watch. “About seven.”

  The three men in the stone room had drunk beer all afternoon with the radio murmuring in the hot silence. Now, with the sun set, they buttoned their shirts again.

  “I’m glad my sister’s away in the mountains tonight” said Walter.

  “She’ll hear about it, anyway, won’t she? They have a telegraph up at the villa?”

  “Last I heard, it was out of order.” Walter tapped his fingers on the stone table. “It’s this waiting kills me. I wish I didn’t know. I wish I could just look up and see it happen and be surprised and not have time to think.”

  “Suppose it’ll happen tonight?” Bill handed around glasses of the cool wine. He was frying a large omelette on the office stove, with tomato sauce and crisp bacon.

  “Who knows?” said Charlie.

  “They said it might in the last radiogram that came through before the silence.”

  Walter opened the large window. The sky was clear, dark, filling with stars. A still quiet warmth as of breathing hung over the village down hill. Distantly, a canal lay near the horizon, shining.

  “Mars is a funny planet,” observed Walter, looking out. “I never dreamed I’d wind up living here, a couple million miles from home.”

  Voices sounded below; two dim figures careened along the alley.

  “There go Johnson and Remington,” said Walter. “Drunker than owls, already. God, how I envy them.”

  “If there’s one time I don’t want to be drunk, it’s tonight,” said Bill, spooning out omelette on three stone plates. “Where’s your son, Walt?”

  Walter called out the window into the dark, evening street. “Joe!” After a moment, a small voice replied, far away, “Can’t I stay out, dad?” “No!” Walter called back. “Come eat!” “But I might miss it,” complained Joe, trudging up the back stairs, slowly. “Eat and you can run back out,” said Waiter, as they all sat down to the table. The boy, ten years old and blond, watched the door and ate rapidly with his spoon. “Slow down,” suggested his father. “Some more wine, anybody?” The wine was poured quietly.

  They did little conversing during the supper hour.

  “My plate’s clean; can I go now, dad?”

  Walter nodded and the boy ran. His footsteps faded down the alley. Bill said, “He wasn’t born on Earth, was he?”

  “No. Here in Mars Village, in 1991. His mother divorced me two years later. She went back to Earth. Joe stayed on; the psychologist pointed out that space travel and the change in environments would be too much for Joe. So he stayed here with me.”

  “This must be quite a night for Joe.”

  “Yes, he’s excited. Means nothing to him, of course; just another entertainment, something new, different.”

  “Why can’t we change the subject?” Charles slammed down his knife and fork. “What time is it?” Somebody told him. “More wine,” he gasped, holding the bottle, his hand trembling.

  “The Martians are throwing a big shindig in the village tonight,” said Bill, helping clear the table. “I don’t blame them. We came here to colonize Mars in our rockets and never asked if they wanted us or not. How many Earthmen are here on Mars now, Charlie?”

  “A thousand; no more than that.”

  “Well, that makes us a neat minority, doesn’t it? Those two million Martians will certainly deserve their celebration on a night like this. They’ve declared a planet-wide holiday! children out of school and everything. The Big Set-Piece Day they call it. Fireworks and all.”

  They walked out onto the balcony of the stone house to sit smoking their cigarettes. “I’m sure it won’t happen tonight,” said Charlie, smiling, sweat on his upper lip.

  “Let’s not kid ourselves,” said Walt, taking out his pipe.r />
  “My kid’s down in the town now running and screaming with the Martian kids in the big holiday. He’s almost a Martian himself. Oh, it’ll be tonight all right.”

  “I wonder what the Martians will do to us?”

  Walt shrugged. “Nothing. God, how they must feel about all this. Without having to lift a finger, without having anything to do with the Fireworks, the Martian can watch the display. I think it’ll amuse them to let us live on; remnants of a civilization, as it were, that set fire to its own tail.”

  Bill puffed slowly. “I’ve got a father, living in Illinois, Lake Bluff, tonight. God how he hated Communists.”

  “No kidding?” Charlie laughed, shortly. “I went through Lake Bluff three times in the summer of 1980, when I was twelve.”

  “I’ll be damned,” said Bill.

  They sat in darkness, cigarettes glowing. Far away, the running feet, the shouts, the laughs, grew louder. Carnival music sounded, firecrackers exploded, whistles blew. In all the tilted stone houses candles flickered out as shadows moved into the streets.

  “They’re climbing on their rooftops for the performance,” said Bill, quietly. “There’re some going up in the hills. They can make a night of it; take a picnic lunch, sit on a hilltop, wait for the big show, and maybe make a little love. Fine.”

  “Nice night. Were you ever in Chicago in the summer?” asked Charlie, suddenly. “Hot. I thought I’d die.”

  The town lights were all gone now. On the silent hills, the people watched the sky.

  “Funny,” said Bill. “I just thought of Central School, in Mellin Town, Wisconsin. Haven’t thought of it in years. We had an old maid teacher named Larribee and—” He stopped, drank his wine, and said nothing else.

  Walt’s son ran upstairs, panting.

  “Is it time?” He flopped on his father’s knee.

  “Aren’t you spending the night with the village boys?” asked Walt. “No, I’ll be with you,” said Joe. “After all,” he explained. “You were born in New York.”