The Martian Chronicles

by Ray Douglas Bradbury

  “Fine. Always something new. I made up my mind when I came here last year I wouldn’t expect nothing, nor ask nothing, nor be surprised at nothing. We’ve got to forget Earth and how things were. We’ve got to look at what we’re in here, and how different it is. I get a hell of a lot of fun out of just the weather here. It’s Martian weather. Hot as hell daytimes, cold as hell nights. I get a big kick out of the different flowers and different rain. I came to Mars to retire and I wanted to retire in a place where everything is different. An old man needs to have things different. Young people don’t want to talk to him, other old people bore hell out of him. So I thought the best thing for me is a place so different that all you got to do is open your eyes and you’re entertained. I got this gas station. If business picks up too much, I’ll move on back to some other old highway that’s not so busy, where I can earn just enough to live on and still have time to feel the different things here.”

  “You got the right idea, Pop,” said Tomas, his brown hands idly on the wheel. He was feeling good. He had been working in one of the new colonies for ten days straight and now he had two days off and was on his way to a party.

  “I’m not surprised at anything any more,” said the old man. “I’m just looking. I’m just experiencing. If you can’t take Mars for what she is, you might as well go back to Earth. Everything’s crazy up here, the soil, the air, the canals, the natives (I never saw any yet, but I hear they’re around), the clocks. Even my clock acts funny. Even time is crazy up here. Sometimes I feel I’m here all by myself, no one else on the whole damn planet. I’d take bets on it. Sometimes I feel about eight years old, my body squeezed up and everything else tall. Jesus, it’s just the place for an old man. Keeps me alert and keeps me happy. You know what Mars is? It’s like a thing I got for Christmas seventy years ago — don’t know if you ever had one — they called them kaleidoscopes, bits of crystal and cloth and beads and pretty junk. You held it up to the sunlight and looked in through at it, and it took your breath away. All the patterns! Well, that’s Mars. Enjoy it. Don’t ask it to be nothing else but what it is. Jesus, you know that highway right there, built by the Martians, is over sixteen centuries old and still in good condition? That’s one dollar and fifty cents, thanks and good night.”

  Tomas drove off down the ancient highway, laughing quietly.

  It was a long road going into darkness and hills and he held to the wheel, now and again reaching into his lunch bucket and taking out a piece of candy. He had been driving steadily for an hour, with no other car on the road, no light, just the road going under, the hum, the roar, and Mars out there, so quiet. Mars was always quiet, but quieter tonight than any other. The deserts and empty seas swung by him, and the mountains against the stars.

  There was a smell of Time in the air tonight. He smiled and turned the fancy in his mind. There was a thought. What did Time smell like? Like dust and clocks and people. And if you wondered what Time sounded like it sounded like water running in a dark cave and voices crying and dirt dropping down upon hollow box lids, and rain. And, going further, what did Time look like? Time looked like snow dropping silently into a black room or it looked like a silent film in an ancient theater, one hundred billion faces falling like those New Year balloons, down and down into nothing. That was how Time smelled and looked and sounded. And tonight — Tomas shoved a hand into the wind outside the truck — tonight you could almost touch Time.

  He drove the truck between hills of Time. His neck prickled and he sat up, watching ahead.

  He pulled into a little dead Martian town, stopped the engine, and let the silence come in around him. He sat, not breathing, looking out at the white buildings in the moonlight. Uninhabited for centuries. Perfect, faultless, in ruins, yes, but perfect, nevertheless.

  He started the engine and drove on another mile or more before stopping again, climbing out, carrying his lunch bucket, and walking to a little promontory where he could look back at that dusty city. He opened his thermos and poured himself a cup of coffee. A night bird flew by. He felt very good, very much at peace.

  Perhaps five minutes later there was a sound. Off in the hills, where the ancient highway curved, there was a motion, a dim light, and then a murmur.

  Tomas turned slowly with the coffee cup in his hand.

  And out of the hills came a strange thing.

  It was a machine like a jade-green insect, a praying mantis, delicately rushing through the cold air, indistinct, countless green diamonds winking over its body, and red jewels that glittered with multifaceted eyes. Its six legs fell upon the ancient highway with the sounds of a sparse rain which dwindled away, and from the back of the machine a Martian with melted gold for eyes looked down at Tomas as if he were looking into a well.

  Tomas raised his hand and thought Hello! automatically but did not move his lips, for this was a Martian. But Tomas had swum in blue rivers on Earth, with strangers passing on the road, and eaten in strange houses with strange people, and his weapon had always been his smile. He did not carry a gun. And he did not feel the need of one now, even with the little fear that gathered about his heart at this moment

  The Martian’s hands were empty too. For a moment they looked across the cool air at each other.

  It was Tomis who moved first.

  “Hello!” he called.

  “Hello!” called the Martian in his own language.

  They did not understand each other.

  “Did you say hello?” they both asked.

  “What did you say?” they said, each in a different tongue.

  They scowled.

  “Who are you?” said Tomas in English.

  “What are you doing here?” In Martian; the stranger’s lips moved.

  “Where are you going?” they said, and looked bewildered.

  “I’m Tomas Gomez.”

  “I’m Muhe Ca.”

  Neither understood, but they tapped their chests with the words and then it became clear.

  And then the Martian laughed. “Wait!” Tomas felt his head touched, but no hand had touched him. “There!” said the Martian in English. “That is better!”

  “You learned my language, so quick!”

  “Nothing at all!”

  They looked, embarrassed with a new silence, at the steaming coffee he had in one hand.

  “Something different?” said the Martian, eying him and the coffee, referring to them both, perhaps.

  “May I offer you a drink?” said Tomas.

  “Please.”

  The Martian slid down from his machine.

  A second cup was produced and filled, steaming. Tomas held it out.

  Their hands met and — like mist — fell through each other.

  “Jesus Christ!” cried Tomas, and dropped the cup.

  “Name of the gods!” said the Martian in his own tongue.

  “Did you see what happened?” they both whispered.

  They were very cold and terrified.

  The Martian bent to touch the cup but could not touch it.

  “Jesus!” said Tomas.

  “Indeed.” The Martian tried again and again to get hold of the cup, but could not. He stood up and thought for a moment, then took a knife from his belt. “Hey!” cried Tomas. “You misunderstand, catch!” said the Martian, and tossed it. Tomas cupped his hands. The knife fell through his flesh. It hit the ground. Tomas bent to pick it up but could not touch it, and he recoiled, shivering.

  Now he looked at the Martian against the sky.

  “The stars!” he said.

  “The stars!” said the Martian, looking, in turn, at Tomas.

  The stars were white and sharp beyond the flesh of the Martian, and they were sewn into his flesh like scintillas swallowed into the thin, phosphorescent membrane of a gelatinous sea fish. You could see stars flickering like violet eyes in the Martian’s stomach and chest, and through his wrists, like jewelry.

  “I can see through you!” said Tomas.

  “And I through you!�
� said the Martian, stepping back.

  Tomas felt of his own body and, feeling the warmth, was reassured. I am real, he thought

  The Martian touched his own nose and lips. “I have flesh,” he said, half aloud. “I am alive.”

  Tomas stared at the stranger. “And if I am real, then you must be dead.”

  “No, you!”

  “A ghost!”

  “A phantom!”

  They pointed at each other, with starlight burning in their limbs like daggers and icicles and fireflies, and then fell to judging their limbs again, each finding himself intact, hot, excited, stunned, awed, and the other, ah yes, that other over there, unreal, a ghostly prism flashing the accumulated light of distant worlds.

  I’m drunk, thought Tomas. I won’t tell anyone of this tomorrow, no, no.

  They stood there on the ancient highway, neither of them moving.

  “Where are you from?” asked the Martian at last.

  “Earth.”

  “What is that?”

  “There.” Tomas nodded to the sky.

  “When?”

  “We landed over a year ago, remember?”

  “No.”

  “And all of you were dead, all but a few. You’re rare, don’t you know that?”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes, dead. I saw the bodies. Black, in the rooms, in the houses, dead. Thousands of them.”

  “That’s ridiculous. We’re alive!”

  “Mister, you’re invaded, only you don’t know it. You must have escaped.”

  “I haven’t escaped; there was nothing to escape. What do you mean? I’m on my way to a festival now at the canal, near the Eniall Mountains. I was there last night. Don’t you see the city there?” The Martian pointed.

  Tomas looked and saw the ruins. “Why, that city’s been dead thousands of years.”

  The Martian laughed. “Dead. I slept there yesterday!”

  “And I was in it a week ago and the week before that, and I just drove through it now, and it’s a heap. See the broken pillars?”

  “Broken? Why, I see them perfectly. The moonlight helps. And the pillars are upright.”

  “There’s dust in the streets,” said Tomas.

  “The streets are clean!”

  “The canals are empty right there.”

  “The canals are full of lavender wine!”

  “It’s dead.”

  “It’s alive!” protested the Martian, laughing more now. “Oh, you’re quite wrong. See all the carnival lights? There are beautiful boats as slim as women, beautiful women as slim as boats, women the color of sand, women with fire flowers in their hands. I can see them, small, running in the streets there. That’s where I’m going now, to the festival; we’ll float on the waters all night long; we’ll sing, we’ll drink, we’ll make love, Can’t you see it?”

  “Mister, that city is dead as a dried lizard. Ask any of our party. Me, I’m on my way to Green City tonight; that’s the new colony we just raised over near Illinois Highway. You’re mixed up. We brought in a million board feet of Oregon lumber and a couple dozen tons of good steel nails and hammered together two of the nicest little villages you ever saw. Tonight we’re warming one of them. A couple rockets are coming in from Earth, bringing our wives and girl friends. There’ll be barn dances and whisky — ”

  The Martian was now disquieted. “You say it is over that way?”

  “There are the rockets.” Tomas walked him to the edge of the hill and pointed down. “See?”

  “No.”

  “Damn it, there they are! Those long silver things.”

  “No.”

  Now Tomas laughed. “You’re blind!”

  “I see very well. You are the one who does not see.”

  “But you see the new town, don’t you?”

  “I see nothing but an ocean, and water at low tide.”

  “Mister, that water’s been evaporated for forty centuries.”

  “Ah, now, now, that is enough.”

  “It’s true, I tell you.”

  The Martian grew very serious. “Tell me again. You do not see the city the way I describe it? The pillars very white, the boats very slender, the festival lights — oh, I see them clearly! And listen! I can hear them singing. It’s no space away at all.”

  Tomas listened and shook his head. “No.”

  “And I, on the other hand,” said the Martian, “cannot see what you describe. Well.”

  Again.they were cold. An ice was in their flesh.

  “Can it be… ?”

  “What?”

  “You say «from the sky»?”

  “Earth.”

  “Earth, a name, nothing,” said the Martian. “But… as I came up the pass an hour ago…” He touched the back of his neck. “I felt…”

  “Cold?”

  “Yes.”

  “And now?”

  “Cold again. Oddly. There was a thing to the light, to the hills, the road,” said the Martian. “I felt the strangeness, the road, the light, and for a moment I felt as if I were the last man alive on this world…”

  “So did I!” said Tomas, and it was like talking to an old and dear friend, confiding, growing warm with the topic.

  The Martian closed his eyes and opened them again. “This can only mean one thing. It has to do with Time. Yes. You are a figment of the Past!”

  “No, you are from the Past,” said the Earth Man, having had time to think of it now.

  “You are so certain. How can you prove who is from the Past, who from the Future? What year is it?”

  “Two thousand and one!”

  “What does that mean to me?”

  Tomas considered and shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “It is as if I told you that it is the year 4462853 S.E.C. It is nothing and more than nothing! Where is the clock to show us how the stars stand?”

  “But the ruins prove it! They prove that I am the Future, I am alive, you are dead!”

  “Everything in me denies this. My heart beats, my stomach hungers, my mouth thirsts. No, no, not dead, not alive, either of us. More alive than anything else. Caught between is more like it. Two strangers passing in the night, that is it. Two strangers passing. Ruins, you say?”

  “Yes. You’re afraid?”

  “Who wants to see the Future, who ever does? A man can face the Past, but to think — the pillars crumbled, you say? And the sea empty, and the canals dry, and the maidens dead, and the flowers withered?” The Martian was silent, but then he looked on ahead. “But there they are. I see them. Isn’t that enough for me? They wait for me now, no matter what you say.”

  And for Tomas the rockets, far away, waiting for him, and the town and the women from Earth. “We can never agree,” he said.

  “Let us agree to disagree,” said the Martian. “What does it matter who is Past or Future, if we are both alive, for what follows will follow, tomorrow or in ten thousand years. How do you know that those temples are not the temples of your own civilization one hundred centuries from now, tumbled and broken? You do not know. Then don’t ask. But the night is very short. There go the festival fires in the sky, and the birds.”

  Tomas put out his hand. The Martian did likewise in imitation.

  Their hands did not touch; they melted through each other.

  “Will we meet again?”

  “Who knows? Perhaps some other night.”

  “I’d like to go with you to that festival.”

  “And I wish I might come to your new town, to see this ship you speak of, to see these men, to hear all that has happened.”

  “Good-by,” said Tomas.

  “Good night.”

  The Martian rode his green metal vehicle quietly away into the hills, The Earth Man turned his truck and drove it silently in the opposite direction.

  “Good lord, what a dream that was,” sighed Tomas, his hands on the wheel, thinking of the rockets, the women, the raw whisky, the Virginia reels, the party.

  How stran
ge a vision was that, thought the Martian, rushing on, thinking of the festival, the canals, the boats, the women with golden eyes, and the songs.

  The night was dark. The moons had gone down. Starlight twinkled on the empty highway where now there was not a sound, no car, no person, nothing. And it remained that way all the rest of the cool dark night.

  October 2002: THE SHORE

  Mars was a distant shore, and the men spread upon it in waves. Each wave different, and each wave stronger. The first wave carried with it men accustomed to spaces and coldness and being alone, the coyote and cattlemen, with no fat on them, with faces the years had worn the flesh off, with eyes like nailheads, and hands like the material of old gloves, ready to touch anything. Mars could do nothing to them, for they were bred to plains and prairies as open as the Martian fields. They came and made things a little less empty, so that others would find courage to follow. They put panes in hollow windows and lights behind the panes.

  They were the first men.

  Everyone knew who the first women would be.

  The second men should have traveled from other countries with other accents and other ideas. But the rockets were American and the men were American and it stayed that way, while Europe and Asia and South America and Australia and the islands watched the Roman candles leave them behind. The rest of the world was buried in war or the thoughts of war.

  So the second men were Americans also. And they came from the cabbage tenements and subways, and they found much rest and vacation in the company of silent men from the tumbleweed states who knew how to use silences so they filled you up with peace after long years crushed in tubes, tins and boxes in New York.

  And among the second men were men who looked, by their eyes, as if they were on their way to God…

  February 2003: INTERIM

  They brought in fifteen thousand lumber feet of Oregon pine to build Tenth City, and seventy-nine thousand feet of California redwood and they hammered together a clean, neat little town by the edge of the stone canals. On Sunday nights you could see red, blue, and green stained-glass light in the churches and hear the voices singing the numbered hymns. “We will now sing 79. We will now sing 94.” And in certain houses you heard the hard clatter of a typewriter, the novelist at work; or the scratch of a pen, the poet at work; or no sound at all, the former beachcomber at work. It was as if, in many ways, a great earthquake had shaken loose the roots and cellars of an Iowa town, and then, in an instant, a whirlwind twister of Oz-like proportions had carried the entire town off to Mars to set it down without a bump.