The Day It Rained Forever

by Ray Bradbury

  ‘Did you – did you know any other women?’

  ‘No, never, none!’

  ‘You didn’t – drink?’

  ‘Just a nip once in a while, you know how it is.’

  ‘Did you gamble?’

  ‘No, no, no!’

  ‘But a hole punched in your head like that, Mr Lemon, my land, my land! All over nothing?’

  ‘You women are all alike. You see something and right off you expect the worst. I tell you there was no reason. She just fancied hammers.’

  ‘What did she say before she hit you?’

  ‘Just "Wake up, Andrew".’

  ‘No, before that.’

  ‘Nothing. Not for half an hour or an hour, anyway. Oh, she said something about wanting to go shopping for something or other, but I said it was too hot. I’d better lie down, I didn’t feel so good. She didn’t appreciate how I felt. She must have got mad and thought about it for an hour and grabbed that hammer and come in and gone kermash. I think the weather got her, too.’

  Miss Fremwell sat back thoughtfully in the lattice shadow, her brows moving slowly up and then slowly down.

  ‘How long were you married to her?’

  ‘A year. I remember we got married in July and in July it was I got sick.’

  ‘Sick?’

  ‘I wasn’t a well man. I worked in a garage. Then I got these backaches so I couldn’t work and had to lie down afternoons. Ellie, she worked in the First National Bank.’

  ‘I see,’ said Miss FremwelL

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  ‘I’m an easy man to get on with. I don’t talk too much. I’m easy-going and relaxed. I don’t waste money. I’m economical. Even Ellie had to admit that. I don’t argue. Why, sometimes Ellie would jaw at me and jaw at me, like bouncing a ball hard on a house, but me not bouncing back. I just sat. I took it easy. What’s the use of always stirring around and talking, right?’

  Miss Fremwell looked over at Mr Lemon’s brow in the moonlight. Her lips moved but he could not hear what she said.

  Suddenly, she straightened up and took a deep breath and blinked around surprised to see the world out beyond the porch lattice. The sounds of traffic came in to the porch now, as if they had been tuned up, they had been so quiet for a time. Miss Fremwell took a deep breath and let it out.

  ‘As you yourself say, Mr Lemon, nobody ever got anywhere arguing.’

  ‘Right!’ he said. ‘I’m easy-going, I tell you –’

  But Miss Fremwell’s eyes were lidded now and her mouth was strange. He sensed this and tapered off.

  A night wind blew fluttering her light summer dress and the sleeves of his shirt.

  ‘It’s late,’ said Miss Fremwell.

  ‘Only nine o’clock!’

  ‘I have to get up early tomorrow.’

  ‘But you haven’t answered my question yet. Miss Fremwell.’

  ‘Question?’ She blinked. ‘Oh, the question. Yes.’ She rose from the wicker seat. She hunted around in the dark for the screen doorknob. ‘Oh now, Mr Lemon, let me think it over.’

  ‘That’s fair enough,’ he said. ‘No use arguing, is there?’

  The screen door closed. He heard her find her way down the dark warm hall. He breathed shallowly, feeling of the third eye in his head, the eye that saw nothing.

  He felt a vague unhappiness shift around inside his chest like an illness brought on by too much talking. And then he thought of the fresh white gift-box waiting with its lid on in his room. He quickened. Opening the screen door he walked down the silent hall and went into his room. Inside, he slipped and almost fell on a slick copy of True Romance Tales. He switched on the light, excitedly, smiling, fumbled the box open and lifted the toupee from the tissues. He stood before the bright mirror and followed directions with the spirit gum and tapes, and tucked it here and stuck it there and shifted it again and combed it neat. Then he opened the door and walked along the hall to knock for Miss Fremwell.

  ‘Miss Naomi?’ he called, smiling.

  The light under her door clicked out at the sound of his voice.

  He stared at the dark keyhole with disbelief.

  ‘Oh, Miss Naomi?’ he said again, quickly.

  Nothing happened in the room. It was dark. After a moment he tried the knob, experimentally. The knob rattled. He heard Miss Fremwell sigh. He heard her say something. Again, the words were lost. Her small feet tapped to the door. The light came on.

  ‘Yes?’ she said, behind the panel.

  ‘Look, Miss Naomi,’ he entreated. ‘Open the door. Look.’

  The bolt of the door snapped back. She jerked the door open about an inch. One of her eyes looked at him sharply.

  ‘Look,’ he announced proudly, adjusting the toupee so it very definitely covered the sunken crater. He imagined he saw himself in her bureau mirror and was pleased. ‘Look here, Miss Fremwell!’

  She opened the door a bit wider and looked. Then she slammed the door and locked it. From behind the thin panelling, her voice was toneless.

  ‘I can still see the hole, Mr Lemon,’ she said.

  Perchance to Dream

  YOU don’t want death and you don’t expect death. Something goes wrong, your rocket tilts in space, a planetoid jumps up, blackness, movement, hands over the eyes, a violent pulling back of available powers in the forejets, the crash.

  The darkness. In the darkness, the senseless pain. In the pain, the nightmare.

  He was not unconscious.

  Your name? asked hidden voices. Sale, he replied in whirling nausea. Leonard Sale. Occupation? cried the voices. Space man! he cried, alone in the night. Welcome, said the voices. Welcome, welcome. They faded.

  He stood up in the wreckage of his ship. It lay like a folded, tattered garment around him.

  The sun rose and it was morning.

  Sale prised himself out of the small airlock and stood breathing heavily. Luck. Sheer luck. His suit was intact; his oxygen breathable. A few minutes’ checking showed him he had two months’ supply of oxygen and food. Fine! And this – he prowled through the wreckage. Miracle of miracles! The radio was intact.

  He shuttered out the message on the sending key. CRASHED ON PLANETOID 787. SALE. HELP. SALE. HELP.

  Minutes passed; the reply came: HELLO, SALE, THIS IS ADDAMS IN MARSPORT. SENDING RESCUE SHIP LOGARITHM. WILL ARRIVE PLANETOID 787 SIX DAYS. HANG ON.

  Sale did a little dance.

  It was simple as that. One crashed. One had food. One radioed for help. Help came. Voilà! he shouted.

  The sun rose and was warm. He felt no sense of mortality. Six days would be no time at all. He would eat, he would read, he would sleep. He glanced at his surroundings. No dangerous animals; a tolerable oxygen supply. What more could one ask? Beans and bacon, was the answer. He touched the machinery in his helmet that popped food into his mouth.

  After breakfast he smoked a cigarette slowly, deeply, blowing out through the special helmet tube. He nodded contentedly. What a life! Not a scratch on him. Luck, sheer luck!

  His head nodded. Sleep, he thought.

  Good idea. Forty winks. Plenty of time to sleep, take it easy. Six whole long, luxurious days of idling and philosophizing. Sleep.

  He stretched himself out, tucked his arm under his head, and shut his eyes.

  Insanity came in to take him. The voices whispered.

  Sleep, yes, sleep, said the voices. Ah, sleep, sleep.

  He opened his eyes. The voices stopped. Everything was normal. He shrugged. He shut his eyes casually, fitfully. He settled his long body.

  Eeeeeeeeeeee, sang the voices far away.

  Ahhhhhhhhh, sang the voices.

  Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, sang the voices.

  Die, die, die, die, die, sang the voices.

  Oooooooooooo, cried the voices.

  Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, a bee ran through his brain.

  He sat up. He shook his head. He blinked at the crashed ship. Hard metal. He felt the solid rock
under his fingers. He saw the real sun warming the blue sky.

  Let’s try sleeping on our back, he thought. He adjusted himself, lying back down. His watch ticked on his wrist. The blood burned in his veins.

  Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep, sang the voices.

  Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, sang the voices.

  Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh, sang the voices.

  Die, die, die, die, die. Sleep, sleep, die, sleep, die, sleep, die! Oohhh. Ahhhh. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

  Blood tapped in his ears. The sound of the wind rising.

  Mine, mine, said a voice. Mine, mine, he’s mine; he’s mine!

  No mine, mine, said another voice. No, mine, mine, he’s mine!

  No, ours, ours, sang ten voices. Ours, ours, he’s ours!

  His fingers twitched. His jaws spasmed. His eyelids jerked.

  At last, at last, sang a high voice. Now, now. The long time, the waiting. Over, over, sang the high voice. Over, over at last!

  It was like being undersea. Green songs, green visions, green time. Bubbled voices drowning in deep liquors of sea tide. Faraway choruses chanting senseless rhymes. Leonard Sale stirred in agony.

  Mine, mine, cried a loud voice. Mine, mine! shrieked another. Ours, ours, shrieked the chorus.

  The din of metal, the crash of sword, the conflict, the battle, the fight, the war. All of it exploding, his mind fiercely torn apart.

  Eeeeeeeeee!

  He leaped up, screaming. The landscape melted and flowed.

  A voice said, ‘I am Tylle of Rathalar. Proud Tylle, Tylle of the Blood Mound and the Death Drum. Tylle of Rathalar, Killer of Men!’

  Another spoke, ‘I am Iorr of Wendillo, Wise Iorr, Destroyer of Infidels!’

  The chorus chanted. ‘And we the warriors, we the steel, we the warriors, we the red blood rushing, the red blood falling, the red blood steaming in the sun –’

  Leonard Sale staggered under the burden. ‘Go away!’ he cried. ‘Leave me, in God’s name, leave me!’

  Eeeeeee, shrieked the high sound of steel hot on steel.

  Silence.

  He stood with the sweat boiling out of him. He was trembling so violently he could not stand. Insane, he thought. Absolutely insane. Raving insane. Insane!

  He jerked the food kit open, did something to a chemical packet. Hot coffee was ready in an instant. He mouthed it through the helmet tube greedily. He shivered. He sucked in raw gulps of breath.

  Let’s be logical, he thought, sitting down heavily. The coffee seared his tongue. No record of insanity in the family for two hundred years. All healthy, well-balanced. No reason for insanity now. Shock? Silly. No shock. I’m to be rescued in six days. No shock to that. No danger. Just an ordinary planetoid. Ordinary, ordinary, ordinary place. No reason for insanity. I’m sane.

  Oh? cried a small metal voice within. An echo. Fading.

  ‘Yes!’ he cried, beating his fists together. ‘Sane!’

  Hahhahhahhahhahhahhahhah. Somewhere a vanishing laughter.

  He whirled about. ‘Shut up, you!’ he cried.

  We didn’t say anything, said the mountains. We didn’t say anything, said the sky. We didn’t say anything, said the wreckage.

  ‘All right then,’ he said, swaying. ‘See that you don’t.’

  Everything was normal.

  The pebbles were getting hot. The sky was big and dark. He looked at his fingers and saw the way the sun burned on every black hair. He looked at his boots and the dust on them. Suddenly he felt very happy because he made a decision. I won’t go to sleep, he thought. I’m having nightmares, so why sleep? There’s your solution.

  He made a routine. From nine o’clock in the morning, which was this minute, until twelve, he would walk around and see the planetoid. He would write on a pad with a yellow pencil everything he saw. Then he would sit down and open a can of oily sardines, and some canned fresh bread with good butter on it, and pass it in through the helmet airlocks. From twelve-thirty until four he would read nine chapters of War and Peace. He took the book from the wreckage, and laid it where he might find it later. There was a book of T. S. Eliot’s poetry, too. That might be nice.

  Supper would come at five-thirty and then from six until ten he would listen to the radio from Earth. There would be a couple of bad comedians telling jokes and a bad singer singing some songs, and the latest news flashes, signing off at midnight with the U.N. anthem.

  After that?

  He felt sick.

  I’ll play solitaire until dawn, he thought. I’ll sit up and drink hot black coffee and play solitaire, no cheating, until sunrise.

  Ho, ho, he thought.

  ‘What did you say?’ he asked himself, aloud.

  ‘I said "Ha ha",’ he replied. ‘Some time, you’ll have to sleep.’

  ‘I’m wide awake,’ he said.

  ‘Liar!’ he retorted, enjoying the conversation.

  ‘I feel fine,’ he said.

  ‘Hypocrite,’ he replied.

  ‘I’m not afraid of the night or sleep or anything,’ he said.

  ‘Very funny,’ he said.

  He felt bad. He wanted to sleep. And the fact that he was afraid of sleep made him want to lie down all the more and shut his eyes and curl up. ‘Comfy-cosy?’ asked his ironic censor.

  ‘I’ll just walk and look at the rocks and the geological formations and think how good it is to be alive,’ he said.

  ‘Ye gods!’ cried his censor. ‘William Saroyan!’

  You’ll go on, he thought, maybe one day, maybe one night, but what about the next night and the next and the next? Can you stay awake all that time, for six nights? Until the rescue ship comes? Are you that good, that strong?

  The answer was no.

  What are you afraid of ? I don’t know. Those voices. Those sounds. But they can’t hurt you – can they?

  They might. You’ve got to face them some time. Must I? Brace up to it, old man. Chin up, and all that rot.

  He sat down on the hard ground. He felt very much like crying. He felt as if life was over and he was entering new and unknown territory. It was such a deceiving day, with the sun warm; physically, he felt able and well, one might fish on such a day as this, or pick flowers or kiss a woman or anything. But in the midst of a lovely day, what did one get?

  Death.

  Well, hardly that.

  Death, he insisted.

  He lay down and closed his eyes. He was tired of messing around.

  All right, he thought, if you are death, come get me. I want to know what all this nonsense is about.

  Death came.

  Eeeeeeeeeeeee, said a voice.

  Yes, I know, said Leonard Sale, lying there. But what else?

  Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, said a voice.

  I know that, also, said Leonard Sale, irritably. He turned cold. His mouth hung open wildly.

  ‘I am Tylle of Rathalar, Killer of Men!’

  ‘I am Iorr of Wendillo, Destroyer of Infidels!’

  What is this place? asked Leonard Sale, struggling against horror.

  ‘Once a mighty planet!’ said Tylle of Rathalar. ‘Once a place of battles!’ said Iorr of Wendillo.

  ‘Now dead,’ said Tylle.

  ‘Now silent,’ said Iorr.

  ‘Until you came,’ said Tylle.

  ‘To give us life again,’ said Iorr.

  You’re dead, insisted Leonard Sale, flesh writhing. You’re nothing but empty wind.

  ‘We live, through you.’

  ‘And fight, through you !’

  So that’s it, thought Leonard Sale. I’m to be a battleground, am I? Are you friends?

  ‘Enemies!’ cried Iorr.

  ‘Foul enemies!’ cried Tylle.

  Leonard smiled a rictal smile. He felt ghastly. How long have you waited? he demanded.

  ‘How long is time?’ Ten thousand years? ‘Perhaps.’ Ten million years ? ‘Perhaps.’

  What are you? Thoughts, spirits, ghosts? ‘All of those, and more.’ Intelligence? ‘Precisely.’ How did you survive?


  Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee, sang the chorus, far away.

  Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, sang another army, waiting to fight.

  ‘Once upon a time, this was fertile land, a rich planet. And there were two nations, strong nations, led by two strong men. I, Iorr. And he, that one who calls himself Tylle. And the planet declined and gave way to nothingness. The peoples and the armies languished in the midst of a great war which had lasted five thousand years. We lived long lives and loved long loves, drank much, slept much, fought much. And when the planet died, our bodies withered, and, only in time, and with much science, did we survive.’

  Survive, wondered Leonard Sale. But there is nothing of you!

  ‘Our minds, fool, our minds ! What is a body without a mind?’

  What is a mind without a body, laughed Leonard Sale. I’ve got you there. Admit it, I’ve got you!

  ‘True,’ said the cruel voice. ‘One is useless, lacking the other. But survival is survival even when unconscious. The minds of our nations, through science, through wonder, survived.’

  But without senses, lacking eyes, ears, lacking touch, smell, and the rest? ‘Lacking all those, yes. We were vapours, merely. For a long time. Until today.’

  And now I am here, thought Leonard Sale. ‘You are here,’ said the voice. ‘To give substance to our souls. To give us our needed body.’

  I’m only one, thought Sale. ‘Nevertheless, you are of use.’

  I’m an individual, thought Sale. I resent your intrusion.

  ‘He resents our intrusion! Did you heard him, Iorr? He resents!’

  ‘As if he had a right to resent!’

  Be careful, warned Sale. I’ll blink my eyes and you’ll be gone, phantoms! I’ll wake up and rub you out!

  ‘But you’ll have to sleep again, some time!’ cried Iorr. ‘And when you do, we’ll be here, waiting, waiting, waiting. For you.’

  What do you want? ‘Solidity. Mass. Sensation again!’ You can’t both have it. ‘We’ll fight that out between us.’

  A hot clamp twisted his skull. It was as if a spike had been thrust and beaten down between the bivalvular halves of his brain.

  Now he was terribly clear. Horribly, magnificently clear. He was their universe. The world of his thoughts, his brain, his skull, divided into two camps, that of Iorr, that of Tylle. They were using him!