Bradbury Stories: 100 of His Most Celebrated Tales

by Ray Bradbury

  “Who can tell?” There was the mouse again. Doug’s lips trembled.

  “And who’s to say there ain’t genetic evil in the world?” asked the man of the sun, glaring right up at it without blinking.

  “What kind of evil?” asked Neva.

  “Genetic, ma’am. In the blood, that is to say. People born evil, growed evil, died evil, no changes all the way down the line.”

  “Whew!” said Douglas. “You mean people who start out mean and stay at it?”

  “You got the sum, boy. Why not? If there are people everyone thinks are angel-fine from their first sweet breath to their last pure declaration, why not sheer orneriness from January first to December, three hundred sixty-five days later?”

  “I never thought of that,” said the mouse.

  “Think,” said the man. “Think.”

  They thought for above five seconds.

  “Now,” said the man, squinting one eye at the cool lake five miles ahead, his other eye shut into darkness and ruminating on coal-bins of fact there, “listen. What if the intense heat, I mean the really hot hot heat of a month like this, week like this, day like today, just baked the Ornery Man right out of the river mud. Been there buried in the mud for forty-seven years, like a damn larva, waiting to be born. And he shook himself awake and looked around, full grown, and climbed out of the hot mud into the world and said, ‘I think I’ll eat me some summer.’”

  “How’s that again?”

  “Eat me some summer, boy, summer, ma’am. Just devour it whole. Look at them trees, ain’t they a whole dinner? Look at that field of wheat, ain’t that a feast? Them sunflowers by the road, by golly, there’s breakfast. Tarpaper on top that house, there’s lunch. And the lake, way up ahead, Jehoshaphat, that’s dinner wine, drink it all!”

  “I’m thirsty, all right,” said Doug.

  “Thirsty, hell, boy, thirst don’t begin to describe the state of a man, come to think about him, come to talk, who’s been waiting in the hot mud thirty years and is born but to die in one day! Thirst! Ye Gods! Your ignorance is complete.”

  “Well,” said Doug.

  “Well,” said the man. “Not only thirst but hunger. Hunger. Look around. Not only eat the trees and then the flowers blazing by the roads but then the white-hot panting dogs. There’s one. There’s another! And all the cats in the country. There’s two, just passed three! And then just glutton-happy begin to why, why not, begin to get around to, let me tell you, how’s this strike you, eat people? I mean—people! Fried, cooked, boiled, and parboiled people. Sunburned beauties of people. Old men, young. Old ladies’ hats and then old ladies under their hats and then young ladies’ scarves and young ladies, and then young boys’ swim-trunks, by God, and young boys, elbows, ankles, ears, toes, and eyebrows! Eyebrows, by God, men, women, boys, ladies, dogs, fill up the menu, sharpen your teeth, lick your lips, dinner’s on!”

  “Wait!” someone cried.

  Not me, thought Doug. I said nothing.

  “Hold on!” someone yelled.

  It was Neva.

  He saw her knee fly up as if by intuition and down as if by finalized gumption.

  Stomp! went her heel on the floor.

  The car braked. Neva had the door open, pointing, shouting, pointing, shouting, her mouth flapping, one hand seized out to grab the man’s shirt and rip it.

  “Out! Get out!”

  “Here, ma’am?” The man was astonished.

  “Here, here, here, out, out, out!”

  “But, ma’am . . .!”

  “Out, or you’re finished, through!” cried Neva, wildly. “I got a load of Bibles in the back trunk, a pistol with a silver bullet here under the steering wheel. A box of crucifixes under the seat! A wooden stake taped to the axle, with a hammer. I got holy water in the carburetor, blessed before it boiled early this morning at three churches on the way: St. Matthew’s Catholic, the Green Town Baptist, and the Zion City High Episcopal. The steam from that will get you alone. Following us, one mile behind, and due to arrive in one minute, is the Reverend Bishop Kelly from Chicago. Up at the lake is Father Rooney from Milwaukee, and Doug, why, Doug here has in his back pocket at this minute one sprig of wolfsbane and two chunks of mandrake root. Out! out! out!”

  “Why, ma’am,” cried the man. “I am!”

  And he was.

  He landed and fell rolling in the road.

  Neva banged the car into full flight.

  Behind, the man picked himself up and yelled, “You must be nuts. You must be crazy. Nuts. Crazy.”

  “I’m nuts? I’m crazy?” said Neva, and hooted. “Boy!”

  “. . . nuts . . . crazy . . .” The voice faded.

  Douglas looked back and saw the man shaking his fist, then ripping off his shirt and hurling it to the gravel and jumping big puffs of white-hot dust out of it with his bare feet.

  The car exploded, rushed, raced, banged pell-mell ahead, his aunt ferociously glued to the hot wheel, until the little sweating figure of the talking man was lost in sun-drenched marshland and burning air. At last Doug exhaled:

  “Neva, I never heard you talk like that before.”

  “And never will again, Doug.”

  “Was what you said true?”

  “Not a word.”

  “You lied, I mean, you lied?”

  “I lied.” Neva blinked. “Do you think he was lying, too?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “All I know is sometimes it takes a lie to kill a lie, Doug. This time, anyway. Don’t let it become customary.”

  “No, ma’am.” He began to laugh. “Say the thing about mandrake root again. Say the thing about wolfsbane in my pocket. Say it about a pistol with a silver bullet, say it.”

  She said it. They both began to laugh.

  Whooping and shouting, they went away in their tin-bucket-junking car over the gravel ruts and humps, her saying, him listening, eyes squeezed shut, roaring, snickering, raving.

  They didn’t stop laughing until they hit the water in their bathing suits and came up all smiles.

  The sun stood hot in the middle of the sky and they dog-paddled happily for five minutes before they began to really swim in the menthol-cool waves.

  Only at dusk when the sun was suddenly gone and the shadows moved out from the trees did they remember that now they had to go back down that lonely road through all the dark places and past that empty swamp to get to town.

  They stood by the car and looked down that long road. Doug swallowed hard.

  “Nothing can happen to us going home.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Jump!”

  They hit the seats and Neva kicked the starter like it was a dead dog and they were off.

  They drove along under plum-colored trees and among velvet purple hills.

  And nothing happened.

  They drove along a wide raw gravel road that was turning the color of plums and smelled the warm-cool air that was like lilacs and looked at each other, waiting.

  And nothing happened.

  Neva began at last to hum under her breath.

  The road was empty.

  And then it was not empty.

  Neva laughed. Douglas squinted and laughed with her.

  For there was a small boy, nine years old maybe, dressed in a vanilla-white summer suit, with white shoes and a white tie and his face pink and scrubbed, waiting by the side of the road. He waved.

  Neva braked the car.

  “Going in to town?” called the boy, cheerily. “Got lost. Folks at a picnic, left without me. Sure glad you came along. It’s spooky out here.”

  “Climb in!”

  The boy climbed and they were off, the boy in the back seat, and Doug and Neva up front glancing at him, laughing, and then getting quiet.

  The small boy kept silent for a long while behind them, sitting straight upright and clean and bright and fresh and new in his white suit.

  And they drove along the empty road under a sky that was dark now with a few stars
and the wind getting cool.

  And at last the boy spoke and said something that Doug didn’t hear but he saw Neva stiffen and her face grow as pale as the ice cream from which the small boy’s suit was cut.

  “What?” asked Doug, glancing back.

  The small boy stared directly at him, not blinking, and his mouth moved all to itself as if it were separate from his face.

  The car’s engine missed fire and died.

  They were slowing to a dead stop.

  Doug saw Neva kicking and fiddling at the gas and the starter. But most of all he heard the small boy say, in the new and permanent silence:

  “Have either of you ever wondered—”

  The boy took a breath and finished:

  “—if there is such a thing as genetic evil in the world?”

  G.B.S.—MARK V

  “CHARLIE! WHERE YOU GOING?”

  Members of the rocket crew, passing, called.

  Charles Willis did not answer.

  He took the vacuum tube down through the friendly humming bowels of the spaceship. He fell, thinking: This is the grand hour.

  “Chuck! Where traveling?” someone called.

  To meet someone dead but alive, cold but warm, forever untouchable but reaching out somehow to touch.

  “Idiot! Fool!”

  The voice echoed. He smiled.

  Then he saw Clive, his best friend, drifting up in the opposite chute. He averted his gaze, but Clive sang out through his seashell ear-pack radio:

  “I want to see you!”

  “Later!” Willis said.

  “I know where you’re going. Stupid!”

  And Clive was gone up away while Willis fell softly down, his hands trembling.

  His boots touched surface. On the instant he suffered renewed delight.

  He walked down through the hidden machineries of the rocket. Lord, he thought, crazy. Here we are one hundred days gone away from the Earth in Space, and, this very hour, most of the crew, in fever, dialing their aphrodisiac animatronic devices that touched and hummed to them in their shut clamshell beds. While, what do I do? he thought. This.

  He moved to peer into a small storage pit.

  There, in an eternal dusk, sat the old man.

  “Sir,” he said, and waited.

  “Shaw,” he whispered. “Oh, Mr. George Bernard Shaw.”

  The old man’s eyes sprang wide as if he had swallowed an Idea.

  He seized his bony knees and gave a sharp cry of laughter.

  “By God, I do accept it all!”

  “Accept what, Mr. Shaw?”

  Mr. Shaw flashed his bright blue gaze upon Charles Willis.

  “The Universe! It thinks, therefore I am! So I had best accept, eh? Sit.”

  Willis sat in the shadowed areaway, clasping his knees and his own warm delight with being here again.

  “Shall I read your mind, young Willis, and tell you what you’ve been up to since last we conversed?”

  “Can you read minds, Mr. Shaw?”

  “No, thank God. Wouldn’t it be awful if I were not only the cuneiform-tablet robot of Geroge Bernard Shaw, but could also scan your head-bumps and spell your dreams? Unbearable.”

  “You already are, Mr. Shaw.”

  “Touché! Well, now.” The old man raked his reddish beard with his thin fingers, then poked Willis gently in the ribs. “How is it you are the only one aboard this starship who ever visits me?”

  “Well, sir, you see—”

  The young man’s cheeks burned themselves to full blossom.

  “Ah, yes, I do see,” said Shaw. “Up through the honeycomb of the ship, all the happy male bees in their hives with their syrupy wind-up soft-singing nimble-nibbling toys, their bright female puppets.”

  “Mostly dumb.”

  “Ah, well. It was not always thus. On my last trip the Captain wished to play Scrabble using only names of characters, concepts and ideas from my plays. Now, strange boy, why do you squat here with this hideous old ego? Have you no need for that soft and gentle company abovestairs?”

  “It’s a long journey, Mr. Shaw, two years out beyond Pluto and back. Plenty of time for abovestairs company. Never enough for this. I have the dreams of a goat but the genetics of a saint.”

  “Well said!” The old man sprang lightly to his feet and paced about, pointing his beard now toward Alpha Centauri, now toward the nebula in Orion.

  “How runs our menu today, Willis? Shall I preface Saint Joan for you? Or . . .?”

  “Chuck . . .?”

  Willis’s head jerked. His seashell radio whispered in his ear. “Willis! Clive calling. You’re late for dinner. I know where you are. I’m coming down. Chuck—”

  Willis thumped his ear. The voice cut off.

  “Quick, Mr. Shaw! Can you—well—run?”

  “Can Icarus fall from the Sun? Jump! I shall pace you with these spindly cricket legs!”

  They ran.

  Taking the corkscrew staircase instead of the air-tube, they looked back from the top platform in time to see Clive’s shadow dart into that tomb where Shaw had died but to wake again.

  “Willis!” cried his voice.

  “To hell with him,” said Willis.

  Shaw beamed. “Hell? I know it well. Come. I’ll show you around!”

  Laughing, they jumped into the feather-tube and fell up.

  This was the place of stars.

  Which is to say the one place in all the ship where, if one wished, one could come and truly look at the Universe and the billion billion stars which poured across it and never stopped pouring, cream from the mad dairies of the gods. Delicious frights or outcrops, on the other hand, if you thought it so, from the sickness of Lord God Jehovah turned in his sleep, upset with Creation, and birthing dinosaur worlds spun about satanic suns.

  “It’s all in the thinking,” observed Mr. Shaw, sidling his eyes at his young consort.

  “Mr. Shaw! You can read minds?”

  “Poppycock. I merely read faces. Yours is clear glass. I glanced just now and saw Job afflicted, Moses and the Burning Bush. Come. Let us look at the Deeps and see what God has been up to in the ten billion years since He collided with Himself and procreated Vastness.”

  They stood now, surveying the Universe, counting the stars to a billion and beyond.

  “Oh,” moaned the young man, suddenly, and tears fell from his eyes. “How I wish I had been alive when you were alive, sir. How I wish I had truly known you.”

  “This Shaw is best,” retorted the old man, “all of the mincemeat and none of the tin. The coattails are better than the man. Hang to them and survive.”

  Space lay all about, as vast as God’s first thought, as deep as His primal breathing.

  They stood, one of them tall, one short, by the scanning window, with a fine view of the great Andromeda Nebula whenever they wished to focus it near with a touch of the button which made the Eye magnify and suck things close.

  After a long moment of drinking stars, the young man let out his breath.

  “Mr. Shaw . . .? Say it. You know what I like to hear.”

  “Do I, my boy?” Mr. Shaw’s eyes twinkled.

  All of Space was around them, all of the Universe, all of the night of the celestial Being, all the stars and all the places between the stars, and the ship moving on its silent course, and the crew of the ship busy at work or games or touching their amorous toys, so these two were alone with their talk, these two stood viewing the Mystery and saying what must be said.

  “Say it, Mr. Shaw.”

  “Well, now . . .”

  Mr. Shaw fixed his eyes on a star some twenty light-years away.

  “What are we?” he asked. “Why, we are the miracle of force and matter making itself over into imagination and will. Incredible. The Life Force experimenting with forms. You for one. Me for another. The Universe has shouted itself alive. We are one of the shouts. Creation turns in its abyss. We have bothered it, dreaming ourselves to shapes. The void is filled with slumbers;
ten billion on a billion on a billion bombardments of light and material that know not themselves, that sleep moving and move but finally to make an eye and waken on themselves. Among so much that is flight and ignorance, we are the blind force that gropes like Lazarus from a billion-light-year tomb. We summon ourselves. We say, O Lazarus Life Force, truly come ye forth. So the Universe, a motion of deaths, fumbles to reach across Time to feel its own flesh and know it to be ours. We touch both ways and find each other miraculous because we are One.”

  Mr. Shaw turned to glance at his young friend.

  “There you have it. Satisfied?”

  “Oh, yes! I—”

  The young man stopped.

  Behind them, in the viewing-cabin door, stood Clive. Beyond him, they could hear music pulsing from the far cubicles where crewmen and their huge toys played at amorous games.

  “Well,” said Clive, “what goes on—?”

  “Here?” interjected Shaw, lightly. “Why, only the confounding of two energies making do with puzzlements. This contraption—” he touched his own breast, “speaks from computerized elations. That genetic conglomeration—” he nodded at his young friend, “responds with raw, beloved, and true emotions. The sum of us? Pandemonium spread on biscuits and devoured at high tea.”

  Clive swiveled his gaze to Willis.

  “Damn, you’re nuts. At dinner you should have heard the laughter! You and this old man, and just talk! they said. Just talk, talk! Look, idiot, it’s your stand-watch in ten minutes. Be there! God!”

  And the door was empty. Clive was gone.

  Silently, Willis and Mr. Shaw floated down the drop-tube to the storage pit beneath the vast machineries.

  The old man sat once again on the floor.

  “Mr. Shaw.” Willis shook his head, snorting softly. “Hell. Why is it you seem more alive to me than anyone I have ever known?”

  “Why, my dear young friend,” replied the old man, gently, “what you warm your hands at are Ideas, eh? I am a walking monument of concepts, scrimshaws of thought, electric deliriums of philosophy and wonder. You love concepts. I am their receptacle. You love dreams in motion. I move. You love palaver and jabber. I am the consummate palaverer and jabberer. You and I, together, masticate Alpha Centauri and spit forth universal myths. We chew upon the tail of Halley’s Comet and worry the Horsehead Nebula until it cries a monstrous Uncle and gives over to our creation. You love libraries. I am a library. Tickle my ribs and I vomit forth Melville’s Whale, Spirit Spout and all. Tic my ear and I’ll build Plato’s Republic with my tongue for you to run and live in. You love Toys. I am a Toy, a fabulous plaything, a computerized—”