The Martian Chronicles

by Ray Douglas Bradbury

  “Mr. Stendahl?”

  “Mr. Garrett. The real Mr. Garrett?”

  “The same.” Garrett eyed the dank walls and the whirling people. “I thought I’d better come see for myself. You can’t depend on robots. Other people’s robots, especially. I also took the precaution of summoning the Dismantlers. They’ll be here in one hour to knock the props out from under this horrible place.”

  Stendahl bowed. “Thanks for telling me.” He waved his hand. “In the meantime, you might as well enjoy this. A little wine?”

  “No, thank you. What’s going on? How low can a man sink?”

  “See for yourself, Mr. Garrett.”

  “Murder,” said Garrett.

  “Murder most foul,” said Stendahl.

  A woman screamed. Miss Pope ran up, her face the color of a cheese. “The most horrid thing just happened! I saw Miss Blunt strangled by an ape and stuffed up a chimney!”

  They looked and saw the long yellow hair trailing down from the flue. Garrett cried out.

  “Horrid!” sobbed Miss Pope, and then ceased crying. She blinked and turned. “Miss Blunt!”

  “Yes,” said Miss Blunt, standing there.

  “But I just saw you crammed up the flue!”

  “No,” laughed Miss Blunt. “A robot of myself. A clever facsimile!”

  “But, but…”

  “Don’t cry darling. I’m quite all right. Let me look at myself. Well, so there I am! Up the chimney. Like you said. Isn’t that funny?”

  Miss Blunt walked away, laughing.

  “Have a drink, Garrett?”

  “I believe I will. That unnerved me. My God, what a place. This does deserve tearing down. For a moment there…”

  Garrett drank.

  Another scream. Mr. Steffens, borne upon the shoulders of four white rabbits, was carried down a flight of stairs which magically appeared in the floor. Into a pit went Mr. Steffens, where, bound and tied, he was left to face the advancing razor steel of a great pendulum which now whirled down, down, closer and closer to his outraged body.

  “Is that me down there?” said Mr. Steffens, appearing at Garrett’s elbow. He bent over the pit. “How strange, how odd, to see yourself die.”

  The pendulum made a final stroke.

  “How realistic,” said Mr. Steffens, turning away.

  “Another drink, Mr. Garrett?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “It won’t be long. The Dismantlers will be here.”

  “Thank God!”

  And for a third time, a scream.

  “What now?” said Garrett apprehensively.

  “It’s my turn,” said Miss Drummond. “Look.”

  And a second Miss Druxnmond, shrieking, was nailed into a coffin and thrust into the raw earth under the floor.

  “Why, I remember that,” gasped the Investigator of Moral Climates. “From the old forbidden books. The Premature Burial. And the others. The Pit, the Pendulum, and the ape, the chimney, the Murders in the Rue Morgue. In a book I burned, yes!”

  “Another drink, Garrett. Here, hold your glass steady.”

  “My lord, you have an imagination, haven’t you?”

  They stood and watched five others die, one in the mouth of a dragon, the others thrown off into the black tarn, sinking and vanishing.

  “Would you like to see what we have planned for you?” asked Stendahl.

  “Certainly,” said Garrett. “What’s the difference? We’ll blow the whole damn thing up, anyway. You’re nasty.”

  “Come along then. This way.”

  And he led Garrett down into the floor, through numerous passages and down again upon spiral stairs into the earth, into the catacombs.

  “What do you want to show me down here?” said Garrett.

  “Yourself killed.”

  “A duplicate?”

  “Yes. And also something else.”

  “What?”

  “The Amontillado,” said Stendahl, going ahead with a blazing lantern which he held high. Skeletons froze half out of coffin lids. Garrett held his hand to his nose, his face disgusted.

  “The what?”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of the Amontillado?”

  “No!”

  “Don’t you recognize this?” Stendahl pointed to a cell.

  “Should I?”

  “Or this?” Stendahl produced a trowel from under his cape smiling.

  “What’s that thing?”

  “Come,” said Stendahl.

  They stepped into the cell. In the dark, Stendahl affixed the chains to the half-drunken man.

  “For God’s sake, what are you doing?” shouted Garrett, rattling about.

  “I’m being ironic. Don’t interrupt a man in the midst of being ironic, it’s not polite. There!”

  “You’ve locked me in chains!”

  “So I have.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Leave you here.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “A very good joke.”

  “Where’s my duplicate? Don’t we see him killed?”

  “There’s no duplicate.”

  “But the others!”

  “The others are dead. The ones you saw killed were the real people. The duplicates, the robots, stood by and watched.”

  Garrett said nothing.

  “Now you’re supposed to say, «For the love of God, Montresor!»” said Stendahl. “And I will reply, «Yes, for the love of God.» Won’t you say it? Come on. Say it.”

  “You fool.”

  “Must I coax you? Say it. Say «For the love of God, Montresor!»”

  “I won’t, you idiot. Get me out of here.” He was sober now.

  “Here. Put this on.” Stendahl tossed in something that belled and rang.

  “What is it?”

  “A cap and bells. Put it on and I might let you out.”

  “Stendahl!”

  “Put it on, I said!”

  Garrett obeyed. The bells tinkled.

  “Don’t you have a feeling that this has all happened before?” inquired Stendahl, setting to work with trowel and mortar and brick now.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Walling you in. Here’s one row. Here’s another.”

  “You’re insane!”

  “I won’t argue that point.”

  “You’ll be prosecuted for this!”

  He tapped a brick and placed it on the wet mortar, humming.

  Now there was a thrashing and pounding and a crying out from within the darkening place. The bricks rose higher. “More thrashing, please,” said Stendahl. “Let’s make it a good show.”

  “Let me out, let me out!”

  There was one last brick to shove into place. The screaming was continuous.

  “Garrett?” called Stendahl softly. Garrett silenced himself. “Garrett,” said Stendahl, “do you know why I’ve done this to you? Because you burned Mr. Poe’s books without really reading them. You took other people’s advice that they needed burning. Otherwise you’d have realized what I was going to do to you when we came down here a moment ago. Ignorance is fatal, Mr. Garrett.”

  Garrett was silent.

  “I want this to be perfect,” said Stendahl, holding his lantern up so its light penetrated in upon the slumped figure. “Jingle your bells softly.” The bells rustled. “Now, if you’ll please say, «For the love of God, Monstresor,» I might let you free.”

  The man’s face came up in the light. There was a hesitation. Then grotesquely the man said, “For the love of God, Montresor.”

  “Ah,” said Stendahl, eyes closed. He shoved the last brick into place and mortared it tight. “Requiescat in pace, dear friend.”

  He hastened from the catacomb.

  In the seven rooms the sound of a midnight clock brought everything to a halt.

  The Red Death appeared.

  Stendahl turned for a moment at the door to watch. And then he ran out of the great House, across the moat, to where a helicopter wa
ited.

  “Ready, Pikes?”

  “Ready.”

  “There it goes!”

  They looked at the great House, smiling. It began to crack down the middle, as with an earthquake, and as Stendahl watched the magnificent sight he heard Pikes reading behind him in a low, cadenced voice:

  “«… my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder — there was a long tumultuous shouting sound like the voice of a thousand waters — and the deep and dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of the House of Usher.»”

  The helicopter rose over the steaming lake and flew into the west.

  August 2005: THE OLD ONES

  And what more natural than that, at last, the old people come to Mars, following in the trail left by the loud frontiersmen, the aromatic sophisticates, and the professional travelers and romantic lecturers in search of new grist.

  And so the dry and crackling people, the people who spent their time listening to their hearts and feeling their pulses and spooning syrups into their wry mouths, these people who once had taken chair cars to California in November and third-class steamers to Italy in April, the dried-apricot people, the mummy people, came at last to Mars…

  September 2005: THE MARTIAN

  The blue mountains lifted into the rain and the rain fell down into the long canals and old LaFarge and his wife came out of their house to watch.

  “First rain this season,” LaFarge pointed out.

  “It’s good,” said his wife.

  “Very welcome.”

  They shut the door. Inside, they warmed their hands at a fire. They shivered. In the distance, through the window, they saw rain gleaming on the sides of the rocket which had brought them from Earth.

  “There’s only one thing,” said LaFarge, looking at his hands.

  “What’s that?” asked his wife.

  “I wish we could have brought Tom with us.”

  “Oh, now, Lafe!”

  “I won’t start again; I’m sorry.”

  “We came here to enjoy our old age in peace, not to think of Tom. He’s been dead so long now, we should try to forget him and everything on Earth.”

  “You’re right,” he said, and turned his hands again to the heat. He gazed into the fire. “I won’t speak of it any more. It’s just I miss driving out to Green Lawn Park every Sunday to put flowers on his marker. It used to be our only excursion.”

  The blue rain fell gently upon the house.

  At nine o’clock they went to bed and lay quietly, hand in hand, he fifty-five, she sixty, in the raining darkness.

  “Anna?” he called softly.

  “Yes?” she replied.

  “Did you hear something?”

  They both listened to the rain and the wind.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Someone whistling,” he said.

  “No, I didn’t hear it.”

  “I’m going to get up to see anyhow.”

  He put on his robe and walked through the house to the front door. Hesitating, he pulled the door wide, and rain fell cold upon his face. The wind blew.

  In the dooryard stood a small figure.

  Lightning cracked the sky, and a wash of white color illumined the face looking in at old LaFarge there in the doorway.

  “Who’s there?” called LaFarge, trembling.

  No answer.

  “Who is it? What do you want!”

  Still not a word.

  He felt very weak and tired and numb. “Who are you?” he cried.

  His wife entered behind him and took his arm. “Why are you shouting?”

  “A small boy’s standing in the yard and won’t answer me,” said the old man, trembling. “He looks like Tom!”

  “Come to bed, you’re dreaming.”

  “But he’s there; see for yourself.”

  He pulled the door wider to let her see. The cold wind blew and the thin rain fell upon the soil and the figure stood looking at them with distant eyes. The old woman held to the doorway.

  “Go away!” she said, waving one hand. “Go away!”

  “Doesn’t it look like Tom?” asked the old man.

  The figure did not move.

  “I’m afraid,” said the old woman. “Lock the door and come to bed. I won’t have anything to do with it.”

  She vanished, moaning to herself, into the bedroom.

  The old man stood with the wind raining coldness on his hands.

  “Tom,” he called softly. “Tom, if that’s you, if by some chance it is you, Tom, I’ll leave the door unlatched. And if you’re cold and want to come in to warm yourself, just come in later and lie by the hearth; there’s some fur rugs there.”

  He shut but did not lock the door.

  His wife felt him return to bed, and shuddered. “It’s a terrible night. I feel so old,” she said, sobbing.

  “Hush, hush,” he gentled her, and held her in his arms. “Go to sleep.”

  After a long while she slept.

  And then, very quietly, as he listened, he heard the front door open, the rain and wind come in, the door shut. He heard soft footsteps on the hearth and a gentle breathing. “Tom,” he said to himself,

  Lightning struck in the sky and broke the blackness apart.

  In the morning the sun was very hot.

  Mr. LaFarge opened the door into the living room and glanced all about, quickly.

  The hearthrugs were empty.

  LaFarge sighed. “I’m getting old,” he said.

  He went out to walk to the canal to fetch a bucket of clear water to wash in. At the front door he almost knocked young Tom down carrying in a bucket already filled to the brim. “Good morning, Father!”

  “Morning Tom.” The old man fell aside. The young boy, barefooted, hurried across the room, set the bucket down, and turned, smiling. “It’s a fine day!”

  “Yes, it is,” said the old man incredulously. The boy acted as if nothing was unusual. He began to wash his face with the water.

  The old man moved forward. “Tom, how did you get here? You’re alive?”

  “Shouldn’t I be?” The boy glanced up.

  “But, Tom, Green Lawn Park, every Sunday, the flowers and…” LaFarge had to sit down. The boy came and stood before him and took his hand. The old man felt of the fingers, warm and firm. “You’re really here, it’s not a dream?”

  “You do want me to be here, don’t you?” The boy seemed worried.

  “Yes, yes, Tom!”

  “Then why ask questions? Accept me!”

  “But your mother; the shock…”

  “Don’t worry about her. During the night I sang to both of you, and you’ll accept me more because of it, especially her. I know what the shock is. Wait till she comes, you’ll see.” He laughed, shaking his head of coppery, curled hair. His eyes were very blue and clear.

  “Good morning, Lafe, Tom.” Mother came from the bedroom, putting her hair up into a bun. “Isn’t it a fine day?”

  Tom turned to laugh in his father’s face. “You see?”

  They ate a very good lunch, all three of them, in the shade behind the house. Mrs. LaFarge had found an old bottle of sunflower wine she had put away, and they all had a drink of that. Mr. LaFarge had never seen his wife’s face so bright. If there was any doubt in her mind about Tom, she didn’t voice it. It was completely natural thing to her. And it was also becoming natural to LaFarge himself.

  While Mother cleared the dishes LaFarge leaned toward his son and said confidentially, “How old are you now, Son?”

  “Don’t you know, Father? Fourteen, of course.”

  “Who are you, really? You can’t be Tom, but you are someone. Who?”

  “Don’t.” Startled, the boy put his hands to his face.

  “You can tell me,” said the old man. “I’ll understand. You’re a Martian, aren’t you? I’ve heard tales of the Martians; nothing definite. Stories about how rare Martians are and when they come among us they come as Earth Men. The
re’s something about you — you’re Tom and yet you’re not.”

  “Why can’t you accept me and stop talking?” cried the boy. His hands completely shielded his face. “Don’t doubt, please don’t doubt me!” He turned and ran from the table.

  “Tom, come back!”

  But the boy ran off along the canal toward the distant town.

  “Where’s Tom going?” asked Anna, returning for more dishes. She looked at her husband’s face. “Did you say something to bother him?”

  “Anna,” he said, taking her hand. “Anna, do you remember anything about Green Lawn Park, a market, and Tom having pneumonia?”

  “What are you talking about?” She laughed.

  “Never mind,” he said quietly.

  In the distance the dust drifted down after Tom had run along the canal rim.

  At five in the afternoon, with the sunset, Tom returned. He looked doubtfully at his father. “Are you going to ask me anything?” he wanted to know.

  “No questions,” said LaFarge.

  The boy smiled his white smile. “Swell.”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Near the town. I almost didn’t come back. I was almost” — the boy sought for a word — “trapped.”

  “How do you mean, «trapped»?”

  “I passed a small tin house by the canal and I was almost made so I couldn’t come back here ever again to see you. I don’t know how to explain it to you, there’s no way, I can’t tell you, even I don’t know; it’s strange, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “We won’t then. Better wash up, boy. Suppertime.”

  The boy ran.

  Perhaps ten minutes later a boat floated down the serene surface of the canal, a tall lank man with black hair poling it along with leisurely drives of his arms. “Evening, Brother LaFarge,” he said, pausing at his task.

  “Evening Saul, what’s the word?”

  “All kinds of words tonight. You know that fellow named Nomland who lives down the canal in the tin hut?”

  LaFarge stiffened. “Yes?”

  “You know what sort of rascal he was?”

  “Rumor had it he left Earth because he killed a man.”

  Saul leaned on his wet pole, gazing at LaFarge. “Remember the name of the man he killed?”