The Stories of Ray Bradbury

by Ray Bradbury

  The men turned quietly to look from the glass port out into the remote and cold stars.

  Space, thought Clemens. The space that Hitchcock loved so well. Space, with nothing on top, nothing on the bottom, a lot of empty nothings between, and Hitchcock falling in the middle of the nothing, on his way to no particular night and no particular morning…

  The City

  The city waited twenty thousand years.

  The planet moved through space and the flowers of the fields grew up and fell away, and still the city waited; and the rivers of the planet rose and waned and turned to dust. Still the city waited. The winds that had been young and wild grew old and serene, and the clouds of the sky that had been ripped and torn were left alone to drift in idle whitenesses. Still the city waited.

  The city waited with its windows and its black obsidian walls and its sky towers and its unpennanted turrets, with its untrod streets and its untouched doorknobs, with not a scrap of paper or a fingerprint upon it. The city waited while the planet arced in space, following its orbit about a blue-white sun, and the seasons passed from ice to fire and back to ice and then to green fields and yellow summer meadows.

  It was on a summer afternoon in the middle of the twenty thousandth year that the city ceased waiting.

  In the sky a rocket appeared.

  The rocket soared over, turned, came back, and landed in the shale meadow fifty yards from the obsidian wall.

  There were booted footsteps in the thin grass and calling voices from men within the rocket to men without.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘All right, men. Careful! Into the city. Jensen, you and Hutchinson patrol ahead. Keep a sharp eye.’

  The city opened secret nostrils in its black walls and a steady suction vent deep in the body of the city drew storms of air back through channels, through thistle filters and dust collectors, to a fine and tremblingly delicate series of coils and webs which glowed with silver light. Again and again the immense suctions occurred; again and again the odors from the meadow were borne upon warm winds into the city.

  ‘Fire odor, the scent of a fallen meteor, hot metal. A ship has come from another world. The brass smell, the dusty fire smell of burned powder, sulphur, and rocket brimstone.’

  This information, stamped on tapes which sprocketed into slots, slid down through yellow cogs into further machines.

  Click-chakk-chakk-chakk.

  A calculator made the sound of a metronome. Five, six, seven, eight, nine. Nine men! An instantaneous typewriter inked this message on tape which slithered and vanished.

  Clickety-click-chakk-chakk.

  The city awaited the soft tread of their rubberoid boots.

  The great city nostrils dilated again.

  The smell of butter. In the city air, from the stalking men, faintly, the aura which wafted to the great Nose broke down into memories of milk, cheese, ice cream, butter, the effluvia of a dairy economy.

  Click-click.

  ‘Careful, men!’

  ‘Jones, get your gun out. Don’t be a fool!’

  ‘The city’s dead; why worry?’

  ‘You can’t tell.’

  Now, at the barking talk, the Ears awoke. After centuries of listening to winds that blew small and faint, of hearing leaves strip from trees and grass grow softly in the time of melting snows, now the Ears oiled themselves in a self-lubrication, drew taut, great drums upon which the heartbeat of the invaders might pummel and thud delicately as the tremor of a gnat’s wing. The Ears listened and the Nose siphoned up great chambers of odor.

  The perspiration of frightened men arose. There were islands of sweat under their arms, and sweat in their hands as they held their guns.

  The Nose sifted and worried this air, like a connoisseur busy with an ancient vintage.

  Chikk-chikk-chakk-click.

  Information rotated down on parallel check tapes. Perspiration; chlorides such-and-such percent; sulphates so-and-so; urea nitrogen, ammonia nitrogen, thus: creatinine, sugar, lactic acid, there!

  Bells rang. Small totals jumped up.

  The Nose whispered, expelling the tested air. The great Ears listened:

  ‘I think we should go back to the rocket, Captain.’

  ‘I give the orders, Mr Smith!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You, up there! Patrol! See anything?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. Looks like it’s been dead a long time!’

  ‘You see, Smith? Nothing to fear.’

  ‘I don’t like it. I don’t know why. You ever feel you’ve seen a place before? Well, this city’s too familiar.’

  ‘Nonsense. This planetary system’s billions of miles from Earth; we couldn’t possibly’ve been here ever before. Ours is the only light-year rocket in existence.’

  ‘That’s how I feel, anyway, sir. I think we should get out.’

  The footsteps faltered. There was only the sound of the intruder’s breath on the still air.

  The Ear heard and quickened. Rotors glided, liquids glittered in small creeks through valves and blowers. A formula and a concoction—one followed another. Moments later, responding to the summons of the Ear and Nose, through giant holes in the city walls a fresh vapor blew out over the invaders.

  ‘Smell that, Smith? Ahh. Green grass. Ever smell anything better? By God, I just like to stand here and smell it.’

  Invisible chlorophyll blew among the standing men.

  ‘Ahh!’

  The footsteps continued.

  ‘Nothing wrong with that, eh, Smith? Come on!’

  The Ear and Nose relaxed a billionth of a fraction. The countermove had succeeded. The pawns were proceeding forward.

  Now the cloudy Eyes of the city moved out of fog and mist.

  ‘Captain, the windows!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Those house windows, there! I saw them move!’

  ‘I didn’t see it.’

  ‘They shifted. They changed color. From dark to light.’

  ‘Look like ordinary square windows to me.’

  Blurred objects focused. In the mechanical ravines of the city oiled shafts plunged, balance wheels dipped over into green oil pools. The window frames flexed. The windows gleamed.

  Below, in the street, walked two men, a patrol, followed, at a safe interval, by seven more. Their uniforms were white, their faces as pink as if they had been slapped: their eyes were blue. They walked upright, upon hind legs, carrying metal weapons. Their feet were booted. They were males, with eyes, ears, mouths, noses.

  The windows trembled. The windows thinned. They dilated imperceptibly, like the irises of numberless eyes.

  ‘I tell you. Captain, it’s the windows!’

  ‘Get along.’

  ‘I’m going back, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going back to the rocket.’

  ‘Mr Smith!’

  ‘I’m not falling into any trap!’

  ‘Afraid of an empty city?’

  The others laughed, uneasily.

  ‘Go on, laugh!’

  The street was stone-cobbled, each stone three inches wide, six inches long. With a move unrecognizable as such, the street settled. It weighed the invaders.

  In a machine cellar a red wand touched a numeral: 178 pounds…210, 154, 201, 198—each man weighed, registered and the record spooled down into a correlative darkness.

  Now the city was fully awake!

  Now the vents sucked and blew air, the tobacco odor from the invaders’ mouths, the green soap scent from their hands. Even their eyeballs had a delicate odor. The city detected it, and this information formed totals which scurried down to total other totals. The crystal windows glittered, the Ear tautened and skinned the drum of its hearing tight, tighter—all of the senses of the city swarming like a fall of unseen snow, counting the respiration and the dim hidden heartbeats of the men, listening, watching, tasting.

  For the streets were like tongues, and where the men passed, the taste of their heels ebbed
down through stone pores to be calculated on litmus. This chemical totality, so subtly collected, was appended to the now increasing sums waiting the final calculation among the whirling wheels and whispering spokes.

  Footsteps. Running.

  ‘Come back! Smith!’

  ‘No, blast you!’

  ‘Get him, men!’

  Footsteps rushing.

  A final test. The city, having listened, watched, tasted, felt, weighed, and balanced, must perform a final task.

  A trap flung wide in the street. The captain, unseen by the others, running, vanished.

  Hung by his feet, a razor drawn across his throat, another down his chest, his carcass instantly emptied of its entrails, exposed upon a table under the street, in a hidden cell, the captain died. Great crystal microscopes stared at the red twines of muscle; bodiless fingers probed the still-pulsing heart. The flaps of his sliced skin were pinned to the table while hands shifted parts of his body like a quick and curious player of chess, using the red pawns and the red pieces.

  Above on the street the men ran. Smith ran, men shouted. Smith shouted, and below in this curious room blood flowed into capsules, was shaken, spun, shoved on smear slides under further microscopes, counts made, temperatures taken, heart cut in seventeen sections, liver and kidneys expertly halved. Brain was drilled and scooped from bone socket, nerves pulled forth like the dead wires of a switchboard, muscles plucked for elasticity, while in the electric subterrene of the city the Mind at last totaled out its grandest total and all of the machinery ground to a monstrous and momentary halt.

  The total.

  These are men. These are men from a far world, a certain planet, and they have certain eyes, certain ears, and they walk upon legs in a specified way and carry weapons and think and fight, and they have particular hearts and all such organs as are recorded from long ago.

  Above, men ran down the street toward the rocket.

  Smith ran.

  The total.

  These are our enemies. These are the ones we have waited for twenty thousand years to see again. These are the men upon whom we waited to visit revenge. Everything totals. These are the men of a planet called Earth, who declared war upon Taollan twenty thousand years ago, who kept us in slavery and ruined us and destroyed us with a great disease. Then they went off to live in another galaxy to escape that disease which they visited upon us after ransacking our world. They have forgotten that war and that time, and they have forgotten us. But we have not forgotten them. These are our enemies. This is certain. Our waiting is done.

  ‘Smith, come back!’

  Quickly. Upon the red table, with the spread-eagled captain’s body empty, new hands began a flight of motion. Into the wet interior were placed organs of copper, brass, silver, aluminum, rubber and silk; spiders spun gold web which was stung into the skin: a heart was attached, and into the skull case was fitted a platinum brain which hummed and fluttered small sparkles of blue fire, and the wires led down through the body to the arms and legs. In a moment the body was sewn tight, the incisions waxed, healed at neck and throat and about the skull—perfect, fresh, new.

  The captain sat up and flexed his arms.

  ‘Stop!’

  On the street the captain reappeared, raised his gun and fired.

  Smith fell, a bullet in his heart.

  The other men turned.

  The captain ran to them.

  ‘That fool! Afraid of a city!’

  They looked at the body of Smith at their feet.

  They looked at their captain, and their eyes widened and narrowed.

  ‘Listen to me,’ said the captain. ‘I have something important to tell you.’

  Now the city, which had weighed and tasted and smelled them, which had used all its powers save one, prepared to use its final ability, the power of speech. It did not speak with the rage and hostility of its massed walls or towers, nor with the bulk of its cobbled avenues and fortresses of machinery. It spoke with the quiet voice of one man.

  ‘I am no longer your captain,’ he said. ‘Nor am I a man.’

  The men moved back.

  ‘I am the city,’ he said, and smiled.

  ‘I’ve waited two hundred centuries,’ he said, ‘I’ve waited for the sons of the sons of the sons to return.’

  ‘Captain, sir!’

  ‘Let me continue. Who built me? The city. The men who died built me. The old race who once lived here. The people whom the Earth Men left to die of a terrible disease, a form of leprosy with no cure. And the men of that old race, dreaming of the day when Earth Men might return, built this city, and the name of this city was and is Revenge, upon the Planet of Darkness, near the shore of the Sea of Centuries, by the Mountains of the Dead; all very poetic. This city was to be a balancing machine, a litmus, an antenna to test all future space travelers. In twenty thousand years only two other rockets landed here. One from a distant galaxy called Ennt, and the inhabitants of that craft were tested, weighed, found wanting, and let free, unscathed, from the city. As were the visitors in the second ship. But today! At long last, you’ve come! The revenge will be carried out to the last detail. Those men have been dead two hundred centuries, but they left a city here to welcome you.’

  ‘Captain, sir, you’re not feeling well. Perhaps you’d better come back to the ship, sir.’

  The city trembled.

  The pavements opened and the men fell, screaming. Falling, they saw bright razors flash to meet them!

  Time passed. Soon came the call:

  ‘Smith?’

  ‘Here!’

  ‘Jensen?’

  ‘Here!’

  ‘Jones, Hutchinson, Springer?’

  ‘Here!’ ‘Here!’ ‘Here!’

  They stood by the door of the rocket.

  ‘We return to Earth immediately.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  The incisions on their necks were invisible, as were their hidden brass hearts and silver organs and the fine golden wire of their nerves. There was a faint electric hum from their heads.

  ‘On the double!’

  Nine men hurried the golden bombs of disease culture into the rocket.

  ‘These are to be dropped on Earth.’

  ‘Right, sir!’

  The rocket valve slammed. The rocket jumped into the sky.

  As the thunder faded, the city lay upon the summer meadow. Its glass eyes were dulled over. The Ear relaxed, the great nostril vents stopped, the streets no longer weighed or balanced, and the hidden machinery paused in its bath of oil.

  In the sky the rocket dwindled.

  Slowly, pleasurably, the city enjoyed the luxury of dying.

  The Fire Balloons

  Fire exploded over summer night lawns. You saw sparkling faces of uncles and aunts. Skyrockets fell up in the brown shining eyes of cousins on the porch, and the cold charred sticks thumped down in dry meadows far away.

  The Very Reverend Father Joseph Daniel Peregrine opened his eyes. What a dream: he and his cousins with their fiery play at his grandfather’s ancient Ohio home so many years ago!

  He lay listening to the great hollow of the church, the other cells where other Fathers lay. Had they, too, on the eve of the flight of the rocket Crucifix, lain with memories of the Fourth of July? Yes. This was like those breathless Independence dawns when you waited for the first concussion and rushed out on the dewy sidewalks, your hands full of loud miracles.

  So here they were, the Episcopal Fathers, in the breathing dawn before they pinwheeled off to Mars, leaving their incense through the velvet cathedral of space.

  ‘Should we go at all?’ whispered Father Peregrine. ‘Shouldn’t we solve our own sins on Earth? Aren’t we running from our lives here?’

  He arose, his fleshy body, with its rich look of strawberries, milk, and steak, moving heavily.

  ‘Or is it sloth?’ he wondered. ‘Do I dread the journey?’

  He stepped into the needle-spray shower.

  ‘But I shall take you t
o Mars, body.’ He addressed himself. ‘Leaving old sins here. And on to Mars to find new sins?’ A delightful thought, almost. Sins no one had ever thought of. Oh, he himself had written a little book: The Problem of Sin on Other Worlds, ignored as somehow not serious enough by his Episcopal brethren.

  Only last night, over a final cigar, he and Father Stone had talked of it.

  ‘On Mars sin might appear as virtue. We must guard against virtuous acts there that, later, might be found to be sins!’ said Father Peregrine, beaming. ‘How exciting! It’s been centuries since so much adventure has accompanied the prospect of being a missionary!’

  ‘I will recognize sin,’ said Father Stone bluntly. ‘even on Mars.’

  ‘Oh, we priests pride ourselves on being litmus paper, changing color in sin’s presence,’ retorted Father Peregrine, ‘but what if Martian chemistry is such we do not color at all! If there are new senses on Mars, you must admit the possibility of unrecognizable sin.’

  ‘If there is no malice aforethought, there is no sin or punishment for same—the Lord assures us that,’ Father Stone replied.

  ‘On Earth, yes. But perhaps a Martian sin might inform the subconscious of its evil, telepathically, leaving the conscious mind of man free to act, seemingly without malice! What then?’

  ‘What could there be in the way of new sins?’

  Father Peregrine leaned heavily forward. ‘Adam alone did not sin. Add Eve and you add temptation. Add a second man and you make adultery possible. With the addition of sex or people, you add sin. If men were armless they could not strangle with their hands. You would not have that particular sin of murder. Add arms, and you add the possibility of a new violence. Amoebas cannot sin because they reproduce by fission. They do not covet wives or murder each other. Add sex to amoebas, add arms and legs, and you would have murder and adultery. Add an arm or leg or person, or take away each, and you add or subtract possible evil. On Mars, what if there are five new senses, organs, invisible limbs we can’t conceive of—then mightn’t there be five new sins?’

  Father Stone gasped. ‘I think you enjoy this sort of thing!’

  ‘I keep my mind alive, Father; just alive, is all.’