by Ray Bradbury
With the wine came the poet, and after quite a bit of the poet, came sleep on board the yacht which moved away in search of a City that would not as yet be found.
At three in the morning, restless, unaccustomed to the gravity of a planet pulling at all of his body and not freeing him to dream, Wilder came out on the afterdeck of the yacht and found the actress there.
She was watching the waters slip by in dark revelations and discardments of stars.
He sat beside her and thought a question.
Just as silently, Cara Corelli asked herself the same question, and answered it.
"I am here on Mars because not long ago for the first time in my life, a man told me the truth."
Perhaps she expected surprise. Wilder said nothing. The boat moved as on a stream of soundless oil.
"I am a beautiful woman. I have been beautiful all of my life. Which means that from the start people lied because they simply wished to be with me. I grew up surrounded by the untruths of men, women, and children who could not risk my displeasure. When beauty pouts, the world trembles.
"Have you ever seen a beautiful woman surrounded by men, seen them nodding, nodding? Heard their laughter? Men will laugh at anything a beautiful woman says. Hate themselves, yes, but they will laugh, say no for yes and yes for no.
"Well, that's how it was every day of every year for me. A crowd of liars stood between me and anything unpleasant. Their words dressed me in silks.
"But quite suddenly, oh, no more than six weeks ago, this man told me a truth. It was a small thing. I don't remember now what it was he said. But he didn't laugh. He didn't even smile.
"And no sooner was it out and over, the words spoken, that I knew a terrible thing had happened.
"I was growing old."
The yacht rocked gently on the tide.
"Oh, there would be more men who would, lying, smile again at what I said. But I saw the years ahead, when Beauty could no longer stomp its small foot, and shake down earthquakes, make cowardice a custom among otherwise good men.
"The man? He took back his truth immediately, when he saw that he had shocked me. But it was too late. I bought a one-way fare to Mars. Aaronson's invitation, when I arrived, put me on this new journey that will end ... who knows where."
Wilder found that during this last he had reached out and taken her hand.
"No," she said, withdrawing. "No word. No touch. No pity. No self-pity." She smiled for the first time. "Isn't it strange? I always thought, wouldn't it be nice, someday, to hear the truth, to give up the masquerade? How wrong I was. It's no fun at all."
She sat and watched the black waters pour by the boat. When she thought to look again, some hours later, the seat beside her was empty. Wilder was gone.
On the second day, letting the new waters take them where they wished to go, they sailed toward a high range of mountains and lunched, on the way, in an old shrine, and had dinner that night in a further ruin. The Lost City was not much talked about. They were sure it would never be found.
But on the third day, without anyone's saying, they felt the approach of a great Presence.
It was the poet who finally put it in words.
"Is God humming under His breath somewhere?"
"What a fierce scum you are," said his wife. "Can't you speak plain English even when you gossip?"
"Dammit, listen!" cried the poet.
So they listened.
"Don't you feel as if you stood on the threshold of a giant blast-furnace kitchen and inside somewhere, all comfortably warm, vast hands, flour-gloved, smelling of wondrous tripes and miraculous viscera, bloodied and proud of the blood, somewhere God cooks out the dinnertime of Life? In that cauldron sun, a brew to make the flowering forth of life on Venus, in that vat a stew broth of bones and nervous heart to run in animals on planets ten billion light-years gone. And isn't God content at His fabulous workings in the great kitchen Universe, where He has menu'd out a history of feasts, famines, deaths and reburgeonings for a billion billion years? And if God be content, would He not hum under His breath? Feel your bones. Aren't the marrows teeming with that hum? For that matter. God not only hums. He sings in the elements. He dances in molecules. Eternal celebration swarms us. Something is Near. Sh."
He pressed his fat finger to his pouting lips.
And now all were silent, and Cara Corelli's paleness searchlighted the darkening waters ahead.
They all felt it. Wilder did. Parkhill did. They smoked to cover it. They put the smokes out. They waited in the dusk.
And the humming grew nearer. And the hunter, smelling it, went to join the silent actress at the bow of the yacht. And the poet sat to write out the words he had spoken.
"Yes," he said, as the stars came out. "It's almost upon us. It has." He took a breath. "Arrived."
The yacht passed into a tunnel.
The tunnel went under a mountain.
And the City was there.
It was a city within a hollow mountain with its own meadows surrounding it and its own strangely colored and illumined stone sky above it. And it had been lost and remained lost for the simple reason that people had tried flying to discover it or had unraveled roads to find it, when all the while the canals which led to it stood waiting for simple walkers to tread where once waters had tread.
And now the yacht filled with strange people from another planet touched an ancient wharf.
And the City stirred.
In the old days, cities were alive or dead if there were or were not people in them. It was that simple. But in the later days of life on Earth or Mars, cities did not die. They slept. And in their dreamful coggeries and enwheeled slumbers they remembered how once it was or how it might be again.
So as, one by one, the party filed out on the dock, they felt a great personage, the hidden, oiled, the metaled and shining soul of the metropolis slide in a landfall of muted and hidden fireworks toward becoming fully awake.
The weight of the new people on the dock caused a machined exhalation. They felt themselves on a delicate scale. The dock sank a millionth of an inch.
And the City, the cumbrous Sleeping Beauty of a nightmare device, sensed this touch, this kiss, and slept no more.
Thunder.
In a wall a hundred feet high stood a gate seventy feet wide. This gate, in two parts, now rumbled back, to hide within the wall.
Aaronson stepped forward.
Wilder moved to intercept him. Aaronson sighed.
"Captain, no advice, please. No warnings. No patrols going on ahead to flush out villains. The City wants us in. It welcomes us. Surely you don't imagine anything's alive in there? It's a robot place. And don't look as if you think it's a time bomb. It hasn't seen fun and games in--what?--twenty centuries? Do you read Martian hieroglyphs? That cornerstone. The City was built at least nineteen hundred years ago."
"And abandoned," said Wilder.
"You make it sound like a plague drove them--"
"Not a plague." Wilder stirred uneasily, feeling himself weighed on the great scale sunk beneath his feet. "Something. Something..."
"Let's find out! In, all of you!"
Singly, and in pairs, the people from Earth stepped over the threshold.
Wilder, last of all, stepped across.
And the City came more alive.
The metal roofs of the City sprang wide like the petals of a flower.
Windows flicked wide like the lids of vast eyes to stare down upon them.
A river of sidewalks gently purled and washed at their feet, machined creekways which gleamed off through the City.
Aaronson gazed at the metal tides with pleasure. "Well, by God, the burden's off me! I was going to picnic you all. But that's the City's business now. Meet you back here in two hours to compare notes! Here goes."
And saying this he leapt out on the scurrying silver carpet that treaded him swiftly away.
Wilder, alarmed, moved to follow. But Aaronson cried jovially back:
"Come o
n in, the water's fine!"
And the metal river whisked him, waving, off.
And one by one they stepped forward and the moving sidewalk drifted them away. Parkhill, the hunter, the poet and his wife, the actor, and then the beautiful woman and her maid. They floated like statues mysteriously borne on volcanic fluids that swept them anywhere, or nowhere, they could only guess.
Wilder jumped. The river seized his boots gently. Following, he went away into the avenues and around the bends of parks and through fiords of buildings.
And behind them, the dock and the gate stood empty. There was no trace to show they had arrived. It was almost as if they had never been.
Beaumont, the actor, was the first to leave the traveling pathway. A certain building caught his eye. And the next thing he knew, he had leapt off and edged near, sniffing.
He smiled.
For now he knew what kind of building he stood before because of the odor that drifted from it.
"Brass polish. And, by God, that means only one thing!"
Theater.
Brass doors, brass rails, brass rings on velvet curtains.
He opened the door of the building and stepped in. He sniffed and laughed aloud. Yes. Without a sign or a light, the smell alone, the special chemistry of metals and dust torn free of a million tickets.
And above all ... he listened. The silence.
"The silence that waits. No other silence in the world waits. Only in a theater will you find that. The very particles of air chafe themselves in readiness. The shadows sit back and hold their breath. Well ... ready or not ... here I come..."
The lobby was green velvet undersea.
The theater itself: red velvet undersea, only dimly perceived as he opened the double doors. Somewhere beyond was a stage.
Something shuddered like a great beast. His breath had dreamt it alive. The air from his half-opened mouth caused the curtains one hundred feet away to softly furl and unfurl in darkness like all-covering wings.
Hesitantly, he took a step.
A light began to appear everywhere in a high ceiling where a school of miraculous prism fish swam upon themselves.
The oceanarium light played everywhere. He gasped.
The theater was full of people.
A thousand people sat motionless in the false dusk. True, they were small, fragile, rather dark, they wore silver masks, yet--people!
He knew, without asking, they had sat here for ten thousand years.
Yet they were not dead.
They were--he reached out a hand. He tapped the wrist of a man seated on the aisle.
The hand tinkled quietly.
He touched the shoulder of a woman. She chimed. Like a bell.
Yes, they had waited a few thousand years. But then, machines have a property of waiting.
He took a further step and froze.
For a sigh had passed over the crowd.
It was like the sound, the first small sound a newborn babe must make in the moment before it really sucks, bleats and shocks out its wailing surprise at being alive.
A thousand such sighs faded in the velvet portieres.
Beneath the masks, hadn't a thousand mouths drifted ajar?
Two moved. He stopped.
Two thousand eyes blinked wide in the velvet dusk.
He moved again.
A thousand silent heads wheeled on their ancient but well-oiled cogs.
They looked at him.
An unquenchable cold ran wild in him.
He turned to run.
But their eyes would not let him go.
And, from the orchestra pit: music.
He looked and saw, slowly rising, an insect agglomeration of instruments, all strange, all grotesquely acrobatic in their configurations. These were being softly thrummed, piped, touched, and massaged in tune.
The audience, with a motion, turned their gaze to the stage.
A light flashed on. The orchestra struck a grand fanfare chord.
The red curtains parted. A spotlight fixed itself to front center, blazing upon an empty dais where sat an empty chair.
Beaumont waited.
No actor appeared.
A stir. Several hands were lifted to left and right. The hands came together. They beat softly in applause.
Now the spotlight wandered off the stage, and up the aisle.
The heads of the audience turned to follow the empty ghost of light. The masks glinted softly. The eyes behind the masks beckoned with warm color.
Beaumont stepped back.
But the light came steadily. It painted the floor with a blunt cone of pure whiteness.
And stopped, nibbling, at his feet.
The audience, turned, applauded even louder now. The theater banged, roared, ricocheted with their ceaseless tide of approbation.
Everything dissolved within him, from cold to warm. He felt as if he had been thrust raw into a downpour of summer rain. The storm rinsed him with gratitude. His heart jumped in great compulsive beats. His fists let go of themselves. His skeleton relaxed. He waited a moment longer, with the rain drenching over his upthrust and thankful cheeks and hammering his hungry eyelids so they fluttered to lock against themselves, and then he felt himself, like a ghost on battlements, led by a ghost light, lean, step, drift, move, down and along the incline, sliding to beautiful ruin, now no longer walking but striding, not striding but in full-tilted run, and the masks glittering, the eyes hot with delight and fantastic welcoming, the flights of hands on the disturbed air in upflung dove-winged rifle-shot flight. He felt the steps collide with his shoes. The applause slammed to a shutdown.
He swallowed. Then slowly he ascended the steps and stood in the full light with a thousand masks fixed to him and two thousand eyes watchful, and he sat in the empty chair, and the theater grew darker, and the immense hearth-bellow breathing softer out of the lyre-metal throats, and there was only the sound of a mechanical beehive thrived with machinery-musk in the dark.
He held to his knees. He let go. And at last he spoke:
"To be or not to be--"
The silence was complete.
Not a cough. Not a stir. Not a rustle. Not a blink. All waited. Perfection. The perfect audience. Perfect, forever and forever. Perfect. Perfect.
He tossed his words slowly into that perfect pond and felt the soundless ripples disperse and gentle away.
"--that is the question."
He talked. They listened. He knew that they would never let him go now. They would beat him insensible with applause. He would sleep a child's sleep and rise to speak again. All of Shakespeare, all of Shaw, all of Moliere, every bit, crumb, lump, joint, and piece. Himself in repertory!
He arose to finish.
Finished, he thought: Bury me! Cover me! Smother me deep!
Obediently, the avalanche came down the mountain.
Cara Corelli found a palace of mirrors.
The maid remained outside.
And Cara Corelli went in.
As she walked through a maze, the mirrors took away a day, and then a week, and then a month and then a year and then two years of time from her face.
It was a palace of splendid and soothing lies. It was like being young once more. It was being surrounded by all those tall bright glass mirror men who would never again in your life tell you the truth.
Cara walked to the center of the palace. By the time she stopped she saw herself twenty-five years old, in every tall bright mirror face.
She sat down in the middle of the bright maze. She beamed around in happiness.
The maid waited outside for perhaps an hour. And then she went away.
This was a dark place with shapes and sizes as yet unseen. It smelled of lubricating oil, the blood of tyrant lizards with cogs and wheels for teeth, which lay strewn and silent in the dark waiting.
A titan's door slowly gave a slithering roar like a swept-back armored tail, and Parkhill stood in the rich oily wind blowing out around him. He felt as if someone had pasted
a white flower on his face. But it was only a sudden surprise of a smile.
His empty hands hung at his sides and they made impulsive and completely unconscious gestures forward. They beggared the air. So, paddling silently, he let himself be moved into the Garage, Machine Shop, Repair Shed, whatever it was.
And filled with holy delight and a child's holy and unholy glee at what he beheld, he walked and slowly turned.
For as far as his eye could see stood vehicles.
Vehicles that ran on the earth. Vehicles that flew in the air. Vehicles that stood ready with wheels to go in any direction. Vehicles with two wheels. Vehicles with three or four or six or eight. Vehicles that looked like butterflies. Vehicles that resembled ancient motorbikes. Three thousand stood ranked here, four thousand glinted ready there. Another thousand were tilted over, wheels off, viscera exposed, waiting to be repaired. Still another thousand were lifted high on spidery repair hoists, their lovely undersides revealed to view, their discs and tubes and coggeries all intricate and fine and needful of touching, unbolting, revalving, rewiring, oiling, delicately lubricating...
Parkhill's palms itched.
He walked forward through the primeval smell of swamp oils among the dead and waiting to be revived ancient but new armored mechanical reptiles, and the more he looked the more he ached his grin.
The City was a city all right, and, to a point, self-sustaining. But, eventually, the rarest butterflies of metal gossamer, gaseous oil, and fiery dream sank to earth, the machines that repaired the machines that repaired the machines grew old, ill, and damaging of themselves. Here then was the Bestial Garage, the slumbrous Elephant's Boneyard where the aluminum dragons crawled rusting out their souls, hopeful of one live person left among so much active but dead metal, that person to put things right. One God of the machines to say, you Lazarus-elevator, rise up! You hovercraft, be reborn! And anoint them with leviathan oils, tap them with magical wrench and send them forth to almost eternal lives in and on the air and above the quicksilver paths.
Parkhill moved among nine hundred robot men and women slaughtered by simple corrosion. He would cure their rust.
Now. If he started now, thought Parkhill, rolling up his sleeves, and staring off down a corridor of machines that ran waiting for a solid mile of garage, shed, hoist, lift, storage bin, oil tank, and strewn shrapnel of tools glittering and ready for his grip; if he started now, he might work his way to the end of the giant's ever-constant garage, accident, collision, and repair works shed in thirty years!