by Ray Bradbury
“Thanks,” said Walt.
“Who planned the show tonight, the fireworks, dad?”
“I wish I knew.”
In the east, a green star rose.
Below, in the town, a murmur sounded.
“Is that Earth in the sky, dad?”
“Tell me about the set-piece and the fireworks, huh?”
“Well, it took a lot of money, people and time to build.”
“How long?”
“Fifty years, I guess.”
“That’s pretty long.”
Walt held his son and the night wind rose across the alleys, slow and trembling. “I don’t see nothing,” said Joe. “Hush,” whispered his father. They held their breath.
Earth was clear and green in the heavens.
“Hell,” said Charlie. “It’s a false alarm. I’ll open a new bottle and—” He started to stand up.
The sky exploded.
“There!” cried Bill.
They fell back as the whiteness burned the sky.
Earth grew violently, flaming, twice, four times normal size. Fire pushed away darkness with no sound. Like a great green-red flare, the illumination rushed over upturned faces on the hills, in house windows, on rooftops, in valleys, by the rivers and the long canals and the dead seas. The white flame burned briefly in the eyes of the three waiting men.
The light faded.
On the hillsides a vast exultant sigh went up, there was a dinning of drums, a shouting. Joe turned to his father. “Is that all?”
The three men held cigarettes unlit in their slumped hands.
“That’s all,” said Walt, eyes shut. “Show’s over.”
“When will it happen again?” asked Joe.
Walt got up swiftly. “Look; here’s the cellar key. Run down and carry up four bottles of wine. That’s a good boy. Hurry.”
They sat without a word on the cold balcony until the boy brought the bottles up from the cellar.
I, MARS
This is another Martian tale which has somehow remained unchronicled. Also published as “Night Call, Collect,” it first came out in Super Science Stories (April 1949) and reprinted/anthologized several times in A Wilderness of Stars (1969), Tales of Terror from Outer Space (1975), and The Weekend Book of Science Fiction (1981).
* * * *
The phone rang.
A grey hand lifted the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Barton?”
“Yes.”
“This is Barton!”
“What?”
“This is Barton!”
“It can’t be. This phone hasn’t rung in twenty years.”
The old man hung up.
Brrrrinnnng!
His grey hand seized the phone.
“Hello, Barton,” laughed the voice. “You have forgotten, haven’t you?”
The old man felt his heart grow small and like a cool stone. He felt the wind blowing in off the dry Martian seas and the blue hills of Mars. After twenty years of silence and cobwebs and now, tonight, on his eightieth birthday, with a ghastly scream, this phone had wailed to life.
“Who did you think it was?” said the voice. “A rocket captain? Did you think someone had come to rescue you?”
“No.”
“What’s the date?”
Numbly, “July 20th, 2097.”
“Good Lord. Sixty years! Have you been sitting there that long? Waiting for a rocket to come from Earth to rescue you?”
The old man nodded.
“Now, old man, do you know who I am? Think!”
“Yes.” The dry pale lips trembling. “I understand. I remember. We are one. I am Emil Barton and you are Emil Barton.”
“With one difference. You are eighty. I am only twenty. All of life before me!”
The old man began to laugh and then to cry. He sat holding the phone like a lost and silly child in his fingers. The conversation was impossible, and should not be continued, and yet he went on with it. When he got hold of himself he held the phone close to his withered lips and said, in deepest anguish, “Listen! You there! Listen, oh God, if I could warn you! How can I? You’re only a voice. If I could show you how lonely the years are. End it, kill yourself! Don’t wait! If you knew what it is to change from the thing you are to the thing that is me, today, here, now, at this end.”
“Impossible.” The voice of the young Barton laughed, far away. “I’ve no way to tell if you ever get this call. This is all mechanical. You’re talking to a transcription, no more. This is 2037. Sixty years in your past. Today, the atom war started on Earth. All colonials were called home from Mars, by rocket. I got left behind!”
“I remember,” whispered the old man.
“Alone on Mars,” laughed the young voice. “A month, a year, who cares? There are foods and books. In my spare time I’ve made transcription libraries of ten thousand words, responses, my voice, connected to phone relays. In later months I’ll call, have someone to talk with.”
“Yes,” murmured the old man, remembering.
“Forty-sixty years from now my own transcripto-tapes will ring me up. I don’t really think I’ll be here on Mars that long, it’s just a beautifully ironic idea of mine, something to pass the time. Is that really you, Barton? Is that really me?”
Tears fell from the old man’s eyes. “Yes!”
“I’ve made a thousand Bartons, tapes, sensitive to all questions, my voice, in one thousand Martian towns. An army of Bartons over Mars, while I wait for the rockets to return.”
“You fool,” the old man shook his head, wearily. “You waited sixty years. You grew old waiting, always alone. And now you’ve become me and you’re still alone in the empty cities.”
“Don’t expect my sympathy. You’re like a stranger, off in another country. I can’t be sad. I’m alive when I make these tapes. And you’re alive when you hear them. Both of us, to the other, incomprehensible. Neither can warn the other, even though both respond, one to the other, one automatically, the other warmly and humanly. I’m human now. You’re human later. It’s insane. I can’t cry, because not knowing the future I can only be optimistic. These hidden tapes can only react to a certain number of stimuli from you. Can you ask a dead man to weep?”
“Stop it!” cried the old man, for his heart was sickening in him. He felt the familiar great seizures of pain. Nausea moved through him, and blackness. “Stop it! Oh God, but you were heartless. Go away!”
“Were, old man? I am. As long as the tapes glide on, as long as secret spindles and hidden electronic eyes read and select and convert words to send to you, I’ll be young, cruel, blunt. I’ll go on being young and cruel long after you’re dead. Goodby.”
“Wait!” cried the old man.
Click.
* * * *
Barton sat holding the silent phone a long while. His heart gave him intense pain.
What insanity it had been. In youth’s flush, how silly, how inspired, those first secluded years, fixing the telephonic brains, the tapes, the circuits, scheduling calls on time relays:
Brrrrinnnng!
“Morning, Barton. This is Barton. Seven o’clock. Rise and shine!”
Brrrrinnnng!
“Barton? Barton calling. You’re to go to Mars Town at noon. Install a telephonic brain. Thought I’d remind you.”
“Thanks.”
Brrrrinnnng!
“Barton? Barton. Have lunch with me? The Rocket Inn?”
“Right.”
“See you. So long!”
Brrrrinnnng!
“That you, B.? Thought I’d cheer you. Firm chin, and all that. The rescue rocket might come tomorrow, to save you.”
“Yes, tomorrow, tomorr
ow, tomorrow, tomorrow.”
Click.
But forty years had burned into smoke. Barton had muted the insidious phones and their clever, clever repartee. He had sealed them into silences. They were to call him only after he was eighty, if he still lived. And now today, the phones ringing, and the past breathing in his ear, sighing, whispering, murmuring, and remembering.
Brrrrinnnng!
He let it ring.
“I don’t have to answer it,” he thought.
Brrrrinnnng!
“There’s no one there at all,” he thought.
Brrrrinnnng!
“It’s like talking to yourself,” he thought. “But different. Oh God, how different.”
He felt his hands crawl unconsciously toward the phone.
Click.
“Hello, old Barton, this is young Barton. One year older, though. I’m twenty-one today. In the last year I’ve put voice brains in two hundred towns on Mars, I’ve populated it with arrogant Bartons!”
“Yes.” The old man remembered those days six decades ago, those nights of rushing over blue hills and into iron valleys of Mars, with a truckful of machinery, whistling, happy. Another telephone, another relay. Something to do. Something clever and wonderful and sad. Hidden voices. Hidden, hidden. In those young days when death was not death, time was not time, old age a faint echo from the long blue cavern of years ahead. That young idiot, that sadistic fool, never thinking to reap the harvest so sown.
“Last night,” said Barton, aged twenty-one, “I sat alone in a movie theater in an empty town. I played an old Laurel and Hardy. Laughed so much. God, how I laughed.”
“Yes.”
“I got an idea today. I recorded my voice one thousand times on one tape. Broadcast from the town, it sounds like a thousand people living there. A comforting noise, the noise of a crowd. I fixed it so doors slam in town, children sing, music boxes play, all by clock works. If I don’t look out the window, if I just listen, it’s all right. But if I look, it spoils the illusion. There’s only one solution. I’ll populate the town with robots. I guess I’m getting lonely.”
The old man said, “Yes. That was your first sign.”
“What?”
“The first time you admitted you were lonely.”
“I’ve experimented with smells. As I walk clown the deserted streets, the smells of bacon and eggs, ham steak, filets, soups, come from the houses. All done with hidden machines. Clever?”
“Fantasy. Madness.”
“Self-protection, old man.”
“I’m tired.” Abruptly, the old man hung up. It was too much. The past pouring over him, drowning him….
Swaying, he moved down the tower stairs to the streets of the town.
The town was dark. No longer did red neons burn, music play, or cooking smells linger. Long ago he had abandoned the grim fantasy of the mechanical lie. Listen! Are those footsteps? Smell! Isn’t that strawberry pie! No, he had stopped it all. What had he done with the robots? His mind puzzled. Oh, yes….
He moved to the dark canal where the stars shone in the quivering waters.
Underwater, in row after fish-like row, rusting, were the robot populations of Mars he had constructed over the years, and, in a wild realization of his own insane inadequacy, had commanded to march, one two three four! into the canal deeps, plunging, bubbling like sunken bottles. He had killed them and shown no remorse.
* * * *
BRRRRINNNNG.
Faintly a phone rang in a light-less cottage.
He walked on. The phone ceased.
Brrrrinnnng. Another cottage ahead, as if it knew of his passing. He began to run. The ringing stayed behind. Only to be taken up by a ringing from now this house—Brrrrinnnng! now that, now here, there! He turned the corner. A phone! He darted on. Another corner. Another phone!
“All right, all right!” he shrieked, exhausted. “I’m coming!”
“Hello, Barton.”
“What do you want!”
“I’m lonely. I only live when I speak. So I must speak. You can’t shut me up forever.”
“Leave me alone!” said the old man, in horror. “Oh, my heart!”
“This is Barton, age twenty-four. Another couple of years gone. Waiting. A little lonelier. I’ve read War and Peace, drunk sherry, run restaurants with myself as waiter, cook, entertainer. And tonight, I star in a film at the Tivoli—Emil Barton in Love’s Labor Lost, playing all the parts, some with wigs, myself!”
“Stop calling me,” the old man’s eyes were fiery and insane. “Or I’ll kill you!”
“You can’t kill me. You’ll have to find me, first!”
“I’ll find you!” A choking.
“You’ve forgotten where you hid me. I’m everywhere in Mars, in boxes, in houses, in cables, towers, underground! Go ahead, try! What’ll you call it? Telecide? Suicide? Jealous, are you? Jealous of me here, only twenty-four, bright-eyed, strong, young, young, young? All right, old man, it’s war! Between us. Between me! A whole regiment of us, all ages from twenty to sixty, against you, the real one. Go ahead, declare war!”
“I’ll kill you!” screamed Barton.
Click. Silence.
“Kill you!” He threw the phone out the window, shrieking.
In the midnight cold, the ancient automobile moved in deep valleys. Under Barton’s feet on the floorboard were revolvers, rifles, dynamite. The roar of the car was in his thin, tired bones.
I’ll find them, he thought. Find and destroy, all of them. Oh, God, God, how can he do this to me?
He stopped the car. A strange town lay under the late twin moons. There was no wind.
He held the rifle in his cold hands. He peered at the poles, the towers, the boxes. Where? Where was this town’s voice hidden? That tower? Or that one there! Where! So many years ago. So long gone. So forgotten. He turned his head now this way, now that, wildly. It must be that tower! Was he certain? Or this box here, or the transformer half up that tower!
He raised the rifle.
The tower fell with the first bullet.
All of them, he thought. All of the towers in this town will have to be cut apart. I’ve forgotten. Too long.
The car moved along the silent street.
Brrrrinnnng!
He looked at the deserted drugstore.
Brrrrinnnng!
Pistol in hand, he shot the lock off the door, and entered.
Click.
“Hello, Barton? Just a warning. Don’t try to rip down all the towers, blow things up. Cut your own throat that way. Think it over….”
Click.
He stepped out of the phone booth slowly and moved into the street and listened to the telephone towers humming high in the air, still alive, still untouched. He looked at them and then he understood.
He could not destroy the towers. Suppose a rocket came from Earth, impossible idea, but suppose it came tonight, tomorrow, next week? and landed on the other side of the planet, and used the phones to try to call Barton, only to find the circuits dead? Yes, imagine!
Barton dropped his gun.
“A rocket won’t come,” he argued, softly, logically with himself. “I’m old. It won’t come now. It’s too late.”
But suppose it came, and you never knew, he thought. No, you’ve got to keep the lines open.
Brrrrinnnng.
* * * *
He turned dully. His eyes were blinking and not seeing. He shuffled back into the drugstore and fumbled with the receiver.
“Hello?” A strange voice.
“Please,” pleaded the old man, brokenly. “Don’t bother me.”
“Who’s this, who’s there? Who is it? Where are you?” cried the voice, surprised.
“Wait a minute.”
The old man staggered. “This is Emil Barton, who’s that?”
“This is Captain Leonard Rockwell, Earth Rocket 48. Just arrived from New York.”
“No, no, no.”
“Are you there, Mr. Barton?”
“No, no, it can’t be, it just can’t.”
“Where are you?”
“You’re lying, it’s false!” The old man had to lean against the booth wall. His blue eyes were cold blind. “It’s you, Barton, making, making fun of me, lying to me again!”
“This is Captain Rockwell, Rocket 48. Just landed in New Schenectady. Where are you?”
“In Green Town,” he gasped. “That’s a thousand miles from you.”
“Look, Barton, can you come here?”
“What?”
“We’ve repairs on our rocket. Exhausted from the flight. Can you come help?”
“Yes, yes.”
“We’re at the tarmac outside town. Can you rush by tomorrow?”
“Yes, but—”
“Well?”
The old man petted the phone, pitifully. “How’s Earth? How’s New York? Is the war over? Who’s President now? What happened?”
“Plenty of time for gossip when you arrive.”
“Is everything fine?”
“Fine.”
“Thank God.” The old man listened to the far voice. “Are you sure you’re Captain Rockwell?”
“Damn it, man!”
“I’m sorry!”
He hung up and ran.
They were here, after many years, unbelievable, his own, who would take him back to Earth seas and skies and mountains.
He started the car. He would drive all night. Could he do it? What of his heart—It would be worth a risk, to see people, to shake hands, to hear them near you.
The car thundered in the hills.
That voice. Captain Rockwell. It couldn’t be himself, forty years ago. He had never made a recording like that. Or had he? In one of his depressive fits, in a spell of drunken cynicism, hadn’t he once made a false tape of a false landing on Mars with a synthetic captain, an imaginary crew? He jerked his grey head, savagely. No. He was a suspicious fool. Now was no time to doubt. He must run under the moons of Mars, hour on hour. What a party they would have!
