Nine Rarities

by Bradbury, Ray

  His lips moved.

  "I heard you were lost four months ago," he said to me, quiet-like. "I asked for an appointment to Inspector. I thought—I thought I'd like to hunt for you myself. Just—just for old time's sake." His wiry neck muscles stood out, and tightened. He made his little hands into fists.

  He opened my air-lock, laughing quietly, and walked inside me with his quick, short strides. It felt good to have him touch me again, to hear his clipped voice ring against my hull again. He climbed the rungs to my control room and stood there, swaying, remembering all the old times we had fought together.

  "Ayres!"

  "Aye, sir!"

  "Hillary!"

  "Aye, sir!"

  "Slop!"

  "Aye, sir!"

  "Conrad!"

  "Aye, sir!'

  "Where in hell is everybody? Where in hell is everybody?" raged Lamb, staring about the control room. "Where in the God-blamed hell—!"

  Silence. He quit yelling for people who couldn't answer him, who would never answer him again, and he sat down in the control chair and talked to me. He told me what he'd been doing all these years. Hard work, long hours, good pay.

  "But it's not like it used to be," he told me. "Not by a stretched length. I think though—I think there'll be another war soon. Yes, I do." He nodded briskly. "And how'd you like to be in on it, huh? You can, you know."

  I said nothing. My beams stretched and whined in the hot sun. That was all. I waited.

  "Things are turning bad on Venus.

  Colonials revolting. You're old-fashioned, but you're proud and tall, and a fighter. You can fight again."

  He didn't stay much longer, except to tell me what would happen. "I have to go back to Earth, get a rescue crew and try to lift you under your own power next week. And so help me God, I'll be captain of you again and we'll beat the bloody marrow out of those Venerians!"

  He walked back through my compartments, climbed down into my heart. The galley. The computation. The Slop, Ayres. Larian. Belloc. Memories. And he walked out of the airlock with eyes that were anything but dry. He patted my hull.

  "After all, now—I guess you were the only thing I ever really loved..."

  He went away into the sky, then. And so I'm lying here for a few more days, waiting with a stirring of my old anticipation and wonder and excitement. I've been dead a while. And Cap has showed up again to slap me back to life. Next week he'll be here with the repair crew and I'll sail home to Earth and they'll go over me from seam to seam, from dorsal to ventral.

  And someday soon Cap Lamb'll stomp into my air-lock, cry, "Rap her tight!" and we'll be off to war again! Off to war! Living and breathing and moving again. Captain Lamb and I and maybe Hillary and Slop if we can find them after all this time. Next week. In the meantime I can think.

  I've often wondered about that blue-eyed Martian dancing girl with the silver bells on her fingers.

  I guess I could read it in Captain Lamb's eyes, how that turned out.

  I wish I could ask him.

  But at least I won't have to lie here forever. I'll be moving on—next week!

  Undersea Guardians

  Amazing Stories (1944)

  All of us have a purpose in life; among us are those whose duty is to act as guardians for those who have a mission to perform.

  THE ocean slept quietly. There was little movement in its deep green silence. Along the floor of a watery valley some bright flecks of orange color swam: tiny arrow-shaped fish. A shark prowled by, gaping its mouth. An octopus reached up lazily with a tentacle, wiggled it at nothing, and settled back dark and quiet.

  Fish swam in and around the rusting, torn hulk of a submerged cargo ship, in and out of gaping holes and ripped ports. The legend on the prow said: USS Atlantic.

  It was quite soundless. The water formed around the ship like green gelatin.

  And then Conda came, with his recruits.

  They were swimming like dream-motes through the wide dark-watered valleys of the ocean; Conda at the head of the school with his red shock of hair flurried upright in a current, and his red bush beard trailed down over the massive rib of his chest. He put out his great arms, clutched water, pulled back, and his long body shot ahead.

  The others imitated Conda, and it was very quietly done. The ripple of white arms, cupped hands, the glimmer of quick moving feet, was like the movement of motion pictures from which the sound-track has been cut. Just deep water silence and the mute moves of Conda and his swarm.

  Alita came close at his kicking heels. She swam with her sea-green eyes wide-fixed and her dark hair spilling back over her naked body. Her mouth twisted with some sort of agony to which she could give no words.

  Alita felt someone moving at her side. Another, smaller, woman, very thin in her nakedness, with gray hair and a shriveled husk of face that held nothing but weariness. She swam too, and would keep on swimming.

  And then there was Helene, flashing by over their heads like an instantaneous charge of lightning. Helene with her hot angry eyes and her long platinum hair and her strange laughter.

  "How much longer, Conda?" The old woman's thought reached through the waters, touching the brains of them all as they swam.

  "An hour. Perhaps only forty minutes!" came Conda's blunt retort. It had the depth of fathoms in it; dark like the tides in the sunken water lands.

  "Watch out!" somebody cried.

  Down through the green waters overhead something tumbled. A shadow crossed the ocean surface, quick, like a gigantic sea-gull.

  "Depth-charge!" shouted Conda. "Get away from it!"

  Like so many frightened fish the twenty of them scattered instantly, with a flurry of legs, a spreading of arms, a diving of heads.

  THE depth-charge ripped water into gouts and shreds, spread terrific vibrations down to kick the sandy bottom, up to ram the surface like a geyser!

  Alita screamed to herself as she sank, stunned, to the sea-floor, a queer strange pain going through her limbs. If only this were over, if only the real death came. If only it were over.

  A shivering went through her. Quite suddenly the water was icy cold, and she was alone in the green emptiness. So very alone. Alone, staring at a dark ring on her left hand.

  "Richard, I want to see you again so very much. Oh, Richard, if we could only be together."

  "Daughter." The gentle thought husked at her as the old woman glided up, white hair misting around her wrinkled face. "Don't. Don't think. Come along. There's work. Work to be done. Much of it. Work for you and me and the ships on the surface, and for—for Richard."

  Alita didn't move. "I don't want to swim. I'd rather just sit here on the sand and... wait."

  "You know you can't do that." The old woman touched her. "You'd be all the unhappier. You have a reason to swim or you wouldn't be swimming. Come along. We're almost there!"

  The effects of the depth-charge, dropped from a low-flying airplane, had dispersed. Mud-streaks boiled up fogging the water, and there were a million air bubbles dancing toward the outer world like laughing diamonds. Alita let the old woman take her hand and tug her up from the sand floor. Together they progressed toward Conda, who was the nucleus of a growing congregation.

  "Submarine!" somebody thought, in a tense whisper. "Over that crop of coral ahead. That's why the airplane dropped the depth-charge!"

  "What kind of submarine?" someone else asked.

  "German," said Conda grimly. His red beard wavered in the water and his red-rimmed eyes stared out with iron fury. Helene flicked by them all, swiftly, laughing. "A German submarine lying on the bottom, sleeping quietly— waiting for the convoy!"

  Their minds swirled at the words of Conda, like so many warm-cold currents intermixing with fear and apprehension.

  "And the convoy will pass this spot in how long?"

  "Half an hour at most, now."

  "Then there isn't much time, is there?"

  "Not much."

  "Isn't it dangerous for us to be near it? What
if the airplane returns with more depth-charges?"

  Conda growled. "This is the limit to the plane range. That plane won't be back. He's out of bombs and out of gas. It's our job now. And what of it? You afraid?"

  Silence.

  THE ring of faces looked to Conda for the plan, Alita among them; fourteen men, six women. Men with beards grown out four, five months; hair long and unshorn about their ears. Pallid watery faces with determined bone under the skin, set jaws and tightened fists. All gathered like fragments of some oceanic nightmare. The pallid undead, breathing water, and thinking mute thoughts about the stormy night when the USS Atlantic had been torpedoed and sent to the bottom, with all of them trapped, screaming, inside her.

  "We never had our chance," said Conda, grimly, "to get where we were going to do what we had to do. But we'll go on doing it until the war's over because that's all that's worth while doing. I don't know how we live or what makes us live except the will to fight, the will to vengeance, wanting to win—not wanting to lie on the coral shelves like so much meat for the sharks—"

  Alita listened and shuddered. Why was she still alive and swimming forty fathoms under?

  And then she knew. It was like sudden flame in her. She lived because she loved Richard Jameson. She lived simply because his ship might pass this way some day soon again, like it had three weeks ago, returning from England. And she might see him leaning on the rail, smoking his pipe and trying to smile, still alive.

  She lived for that. She lived to keep him safe on every trip. Like the others, she had a purpose, a hot, constricting, unquenchable purpose to prevent more victims from coming down to join her in the same nightmare fashion as the USS Atlantic. She guessed that explained everything. There was good reason for her still to be moving, and somehow God had motivated them all in the green sea-weed plateaus and gullies.

  "Now," came Conda's heavy thought, "we've this German submarine to consider. We have to knock it out of action completely. We can't have it lying here when the convoy comes. Alita—

  Alita jerked. She came out of her thoughts, and her pale lips moved. "Yes?"

  "You know what to do, Alita? And... Helene?"

  Helene drifted down dreamily, laughing in answer, and opening white fingers to clench them tight.

  "It's up to you, Alita and Helene. The rest of us will deploy around the submarine. Jones, you and Merrith try to jam the torpedo openings somehow. Acton, you work on the induction valves. Simpson, see what you can do to the guns on deck; and Haines, you and the other men try your damnedest with the periscope and conning tower."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good enough, sir."

  "If we do it, this'll be the sixth sub for us—"

  "If we do it," said Conda.

  "Alita'll do it for us, won't you, Alita?"

  "What? Oh, yes. Yes! I'll do it." She tried to smile.

  "All right then." Conda swung about. "Spread out and go in toward the submarine under a smoke-screen. Deploy!"

  SILENTLY the congregation split into twos and threes and swam toward the coral shelf, around it, then sank to the bottom, scooped up great handfuls of mud and darkened the water with it. Alita followed, cold, tired, unhappy.

  The submarine squatted on the bottom like a metal shark, dark and wary and not making a sound. Sea-weed waved drowsy fronds around it, and several curious blue-fish eyed it and fluttered past. Sunshine slanted down through water, touching the gray bulk, making it look prehistoric, primeval.

  A veil of mud sprang up as the cordon of Conda's people closed in around the U-boat. Through this veil their pasty white bodies twisted, naked and quick.

  Alita's heart spasmed its cold grave-flesh inside her. It beat salt water through her arteries, it beat agony through her veins. There, just a few feet from her through the mud-veil, lay an iron-womb, and inside it grown-up children stirred, living. And out here in the cold deeps nothing lived but the fish.

  Conda and Alita and the others didn't count.

  The submarine, a metal womb, nurturing those men, keeping the choking, hungry waters from them. What a difference a few inches of metal made between pink flesh and her own white flesh, between living and not living, between laughing and crying. All of that air inside the submarine. What would it be like to gasp it in again, like the old days just a few scant weeks ago. What would it be like to suck it in and mouth it out with talked words on it? To talk again!

  Alita grimaced. She kicked her legs. Plunging to the U-boat, she beat her fists against it, screaming, "Let me ini Let me in! I'm out here and I want to live! I want to live! Let me in!"

  "Alita!" The old woman's voice cried in her mind. A shadow drew across her lined face, softening it. "No, no, my child, do not think of it! Think only of what must be done!"

  Alita's handsome face was ugly with torture.

  "Just one breath! Just one song!"

  "Time shortens, Alita. And the convoy comes! The submarine must be smashed—now!"

  "Yes," said Alita wearily. "Yes. I must think of Richard—if he should happen to be in this next convoy—"

  Her dark hair surged in her face. She brushed it back with white fingers and stopped thinking about living again. It was needless torture.

  She heard Helene's laughter from somewhere. It made her shiver. She saw Helene's nude body flash by above her like a silver fish, magnificent and graceful as a wind-borne thistle. Her laughter swam with her. "Open the U-boat up! Open it up and let them out and I'll make love to a German boy!"

  THERE were lights in the submarine. Dim lights. Alita pressed her pale face against the port and stared into a crew's quarters. Two German men lay on small bunks, looking at the iron ceiling, doing nothing. After a while one puckered his lips, whistled, and rolled out of the bunk to disappear through a small iron door. Alita nodded. This was the way she wanted it. The other man was very young and very nervous, his eyes were erratic in a tired face, and his hair was corn-yellow and clipped tight to his head. He twisted his hands together, again and again, and a muscle in his cheek kept jerking.

  Light and life, a matter of inches away. Alita felt the cold press of the ocean all around her, the beckoning urge of the cold swells. Oh, just to be inside, living and talking like them. . .

  She raised her tiny fist, the one with Richard's thick ring on it, from Annapolis, and struck at the port. She struck four times.

  No effect.

  She tried again, and knew that Helene would be doing the same on the opposite side of the sub.

  The Annapolis ring clicked against thick port glass.

  Jerking, the German lad pulled his head up half an inch and stared at the port, and looked away again, went back to twisting his fingers and wetting his lips with his tongue.

  "I'm out here!" Alita struck again and again. "Listen to me! Listen! I'm out here!"

  The German sat up so violently he cracked his head against metal. Holding his forehead with one hand he slipped out of the bunk and stepped to the port.

  He squinted out, cupping hands over eyes to see better.

  Alita smiled. She didn't feel like smiling, but she smiled. Sunlight sprang down upon her dark smoke-spirals of hair dancing on the water. Sunlight stroked her naked white body. She beckoned with her hands, laughing.

  For one unbelieving, stricken instant, it was as if hands strangled the German lad. His eyes grew out from his face like unhealthy gray things. His mouth stopped retching and froze. Something crumbled inside him. It seemed to be the one last thing to strike his mind once and for all insane.

  One moment there, the next he was gone. Alita watched him fling himself back from the port, screaming words she couldn't hear. Her heart pounded. He fought to the door, staggering out. She swam to the next port in time to see him shout into the midst of a sweating trio of mechanics. He stopped, swayed, swallowed, pointed back to the bunk room, and while the others turned to stare in the designated direction, the young German ran on, his mouth wide, to the entrance rungs of the conning tower.

  Ali
ta knew what he was yelling. She spoke little German; she heard nothing; but faintly the waves of his mind impinged on hers, a screaming insanity: "God! Oh God! She's outside. And she is swimming! And alive!"

  THE sub captain saw him coming.

  He dragged out a revolver and fired, point-blank. The shot missed and the two grappled.

  "God! Oh God! I can't stand it longer! Months of sleeping under the sea! Let me out of this god-damned nightmare! Let me out!"