by Ray Bradbury
Kront clicked angrily. ‘Before you die, you must show us this protoplasm, so it can be judged and destroyed.’
‘Must I? Must you? Must it?’
‘Where is it?’
‘Here.’
‘Where!’
‘Patience, Kront.’
‘I’ve no patience with blasphemers!’
‘That is apparent.’
In one corner of the room was a large square box, from which a glow illumined the nearby walls. Over the box hung a yellow cloth which hid the contents from view.
Ultar, with a certain sure sense of the dramatic, moved to this box and made several adjustments of heat-dials. His visuals were glowing. Grasping the yellow cloth, he lifted it up and away from the box.
A hard, rattling tremor passed through the group. Visuals blinked and changed color. Bodies made an uneasy whining of metal. What lay before them was not pleasant. They drifted forward until they circled the box and peered into it. What they saw was blasphemous and sacrilegious and more than horrible.
Something that grew.
Something that expanded and built upon itself, changed and reproduced. Something that actually lived and died.
Died.
How silly! No one need die, ever, ever!
Something that could rot away into nothingness and run blood and be tortured. Something that felt and could be burned or hurt or made to feel hot or cold. Silly, silly something, horrid, horrid something, all incomprehensible and nightmarish and unpredictable!
Pink flesh formed six feet tall with long, long fleshy arms and flesh hands and two long flesh legs. And – they remembered from myth-dreams – those two unnecessary things – a mouth and nose!
Ome felt the silent coggery within himself grind slow. It was unbelievable! Like the half-heard myths of an Age of Flesh and Darkness. All those little half-truths, rumors, those dim little mutterings and whispers of creatures that grew instead of being built!
Who ever heard of such blasphemy? To grow instead of being built? How could a thing be perfect unless it was built and tendered every aid to perfection by an Obot scientist? This fleshy pulp was imperfect. The least jar and it broke, the least heat and it melted, the least cold and it froze. And as for the amazing fact that it grew, well, what of that? It was only luck that it grew to be anything. Sheer luck.
Not so the inhabitants of the Obot State! They were perfect to begin with and grew, paradoxically, more perfect as time progressed. It was nothing, nothing at all for them to exist one hundred thousand years, two hundred thousand years. Ome himself was past thirty-thousand, a youth, still a youth!
But – flesh? Depending upon the whims of some cosmic Nature to give it intellect, health, longevity? How silly a joke, how pointless, when it could be installed in parcels and packages, in wheels and cogs and red and blue wires and sparkling currents!
‘Here it is,’ said Ultar, simply, and with pride. He said it with a firmness that was unafraid. ‘A body of bone and flesh and blood and fantasy.’
There was a long silence in which the metal whining did not cease among the stricken Council. There was hardly a flicker of movement among them. They stared.
Ome said, ‘It is frightening. Where did you get it?’
‘I made it.’
‘How could you bring yourself to think of it?’
‘It is hard to say. It was long ago. Ten thousand years ago, when I was walking over the stony forests, alone, one day, as I have often done, I found a blade of grass. Yes, one last small blade of green grass, the last one in all of this world. You can’t imagine how unbearably excited I was. I held it up and I examined it and it was a small green miracle. I felt as if I might explode into a million bits. I took the grass blade home with me, carefully, and telling no one. Oh, what a beautiful treasure it was.’
‘That was a direct violation of the law,’ said Kront.
‘Yes, the law,’ said Ultar remembering. ‘Three hundred thousand years ago when we burned the birds in the air, like cinders, and killed the foxes and the snakes in their burrows, and killed fish in the sea, and all animals, including man—’
‘Forbidden names!’
‘Remembered names, nevertheless. Remembered. And then we saw the forests still grew and reminded us of growing things, so we turned the forests to stone, and killed the grass and flowers, and we’ve lived on a barren stony world ever since. Why, we even destroyed the microbes that we couldn’t see, that’s how afraid we were of growing things!’
Kront rasped out, ‘We weren’t afraid!’
‘Weren’t we? Never mind. Let me complete my story. We shot the birds from the sky, sprayed insects from the air, killed the flowers and grass, but yet one small blade survived and I found it and brought it here, and nurtured it, and it grew for hundreds of years until it was ten million blades of grass which I studied because it had cells that grew. I cannot tell you with what excitement I greeted the blossoming of the first flower.’
‘Flower!’
‘A little thing. A blue flower, after a thousand years of experiment. And from that flower more flowers, and from those flowers, five centuries later, a bush, and from that bush, four hundred years later, a tree. Oh, it’s been a strange long time of working and watching, I’ll tell you.’
‘But this,’ cried Kront. ‘How did it evolve to this?’
‘I went looking. I scoured the world. If I found one precious blade of grass, I reasoned, then perhaps I can find another thing, a lizard that had escaped, or a snake, or some such thing. I was more than lucky. I found a small monkey. From there to this is another thousand years and more. Artificial breeding, insemination, a study of genes and cells, well, it is here now, and it is good.’
‘It is forbidden!’
‘Yes. Damnably forbidden. Look, Ome, do you know why flesh was eradicated from the Earth?’
Ome deliberated. ‘Because it threatened Obot Rule.’
‘How did it threaten it?’
‘With the Rust.’
‘With more than the Rust,’ replied Ultar, quietly. ‘Flesh threatened us with another way of life and thought. It threatened us with delightful imperfection, unpredictability, art, and literature, and we slaughtered flesh and made it blasphemy and forbidden to see flesh or speak of it.’
‘Liar!’
‘Am I?’ demanded Ultar. ‘Who owned the world before us?’
‘We’ve always owned it. Always.’
‘What about flesh? Explain it?’
‘It was an experiment that got away from us for a time. Some insane Obot scientist created monster flesh and it bred, and it was the servant of the Obots, and it overthrew Obot Rule for a time. Finally, the Obots had to destroy it.’
‘Religious dogmatism!’ replied Ultar. ‘You’ve been taught to think that. But, know the truth. There must’ve been a Beginning, do you agree?’
‘Yes. There was a Beginning. The Book of Metal says that all the Universe was turned out on one Lathe of one Huge Machine. And we the small Obots of that Lathe and that Machine.’
‘There had to be a first Obot, did there not?’
‘Yes.’
‘And who built him?’
‘Another machine.’
‘But before that, at the very beginning? Who built the machine that built the Obot? I’ll tell you. Flesh. Flesh built the first machine. Flesh once ruled this continent and all continents. Because flesh grows. Machines do not grow. They are made piece by piece – they are built. It took a growing creature to build them!’
Ome went wild. ‘No, no. That is a terrible thought!’
‘Listen,’ said Ultar. ‘We could not stand man and his imperfect ways. We thought him silly and ridiculous with his art and music. He could die. We could not. So we destroyed him because he was in the way, he cluttered up our perfect universe. And then, we had to lie to ourselves. In our own way we are colossally vain. Just as man fashioned God in his own image, so we had to fashion our God in our image. We couldn’t stand the thought of Man being ou
r God, so we eradicated every vestige of protoplasm on Earth, and forbade speaking of it. We were Machines, made by Machines, that was the All, and the Truth.’
He was finished with his speaking. The others looked at him, and at last Kront said, ‘Why did you do it? Why have you made this thing of flesh and imperfection?’
‘Why?’ Ultar turned to the box. ‘Look at him, this creature, this man, so small, so vulnerable. His life is worth something because of his very vulnerability. Out of his fear and terror and uncertainty he once created great art, great music and great literature. Do we? We do not.
‘How can a civilization create when it lives forever and nothing is of value? Things only take value from their evanescence, things are only appreciated because they vanish. How beautiful a summer day is that is only one of a kind; you all have seen such days – one of the few things of beauty that we know, the weather, which changes. We do not change, therefore there is no beauty and no art.
‘See him here, in his box, dreaming, about to wake. Little frightened man, on the edge of death, but writing fine books to live long after. I’ve seen those books in forbidden libraries, full of love and tenderness and terror. And what was his music but a proclamation against the uncertainty of living and the sureness of death and dissolution? What perfect things came from such imperfect creatures. They were sublimely delicate and sublimely wrong, and they waged wars and did many bad things, which we, in our perfectness cannot understand.
‘We cannot understand death, really, for it is so rare among us, and has no value. But this man knows death and beauty and for that reason I created him so that some of the beauty and uncertainty would return to the world. Only then could life have any meaning to me, little as I can appreciate it with my limited faculties.
‘He had the pleasure of pain, yes, even pain a pleasure, in its own way, for it is feeling and being alive; he lived, and he ate, which we do not do, and knew the goodness of love and raising others like himself and he knew a thing called sleep, and in those sleepings he dreamed, a thing we never do, and here he is now, dreaming fine things we could never hope to know or understand. And you are here, afraid of him and afraid of beauty and meaning and value.’
The others stiffened. Kront turned to them and said, ‘Listen, all of you. You will say nothing of what you’ve seen today, you will tell no one. Understand?’
The others swayed and moaned in a dazed, wavering anger.
The sleeper in the long oblong box stirred, fitfully, the eyelids quivered, the lips moved. The man was waking.
‘The Rust!’ screamed Kront, rushing forward. ‘Seize Ultar! The Rust! The Rust!’
The Sound of Summer Running
Late that night, going home from the show with his mother and father and his brother Tom, Douglas saw the tennis shoes in the bright store window. He glanced quickly away, but his ankles were seized, his feet suspended, then rushed. The earth spun; the shop awnings slammed their canvas wings overhead with the thrust of his body running. His mother and father and brother walked quietly on both sides of him. Douglas walked backward, watching the tennis shoes in the midnight window left behind.
‘It was a nice movie,’ said Mother.
Douglas murmured, ‘It was.…’
It was June and long past time for buying the special shoes that were quiet as a summer rain falling on the walks. June and the earth full of raw power and everything everywhere in motion. The grass was still pouring in from the country, surrounding the sidewalks, stranding the houses. Any moment the town would capsize, go down and leave not a stir in the clover and weeds. And here Douglas stood, trapped on the dead cement and the red-brick streets, hardly able to move.
‘Dad!’ He blurted it out. ‘Back there in that window, those Cream-Sponge Para Litefoot Shoes …’
His father didn’t even turn. ‘Suppose you tell me why you need a new pair of sneakers. Can you do that?’
‘Well …’
It was because they felt the way it feels every summer when you take off your shoes for the first time and run in the grass. They felt like it feels sticking your feet out of the hot covers in wintertime to let the cold wind from the open window blow on them suddenly and you let them stay out a long time until you pull them back in under the covers again to feel them, like packed snow. The tennis shoes felt like it always feels the first time every year wading in the slow waters of the creek and seeing your feet below, half an inch farther downstream, with refraction, than the real part of you above water.
‘Dad,’ said Douglas, ‘it’s hard to explain.’
Somehow the people who made tennis shoes knew what boys needed and wanted. They put marshmallows and coiled springs in the soles and they wove the rest out of grasses bleached and fired in the wilderness. Somewhere deep in the soft loam of the shoes the thin hard sinews of the buck deer were hidden. The people that made the shoes must have watched a lot of winds blow the trees and a lot of rivers going down to the lakes. Whatever it was, it was in the shoes, and it was summer.
Douglas tried to get all this in words.
‘Yes,’ said Father, ‘but what’s wrong with last year’s sneakers? Why can’t you dig them out of the closet?’
Well, he felt sorry for boys who lived in California where they wore tennis shoes all year and never knew what it was to get winter off your feet, peel off the iron leather shoes all full of snow and rain and run barefoot for a day and then lace on the first new tennis shoes of the season, which was better than barefoot. The magic was always in the new pair of shoes. The magic might die by the first of September, but now in late June there was still plenty of magic, and shoes like these could jump you over trees and rivers and houses. And if you wanted, they could jump you over fences and sidewalks and dogs.
‘Don’t you see?’ said Douglas. ‘I just can’t use last year’s pair.’
For last year’s pair were dead inside. They had been fine when he started them out, last year. But by the end of summer, every year, you always found out, you always knew, you couldn’t really jump over rivers and trees and houses in them, and they were dead. But this was a new year, and he felt that this time, with this new pair of shoes, he could do anything, anything at all.
They walked up on the steps to their house. ‘Save your money,’ said Dad. ‘In five or six weeks—’
‘Summer’ll be over!’
Lights out, with Tom asleep, Douglas lay watching his feet, far away down there at the end of the bed in the moonlight, free of the heavy iron shoes, the big chunks of winter fallen away from them.
‘Reasons. I’ve got to think of reasons for the shoes.’
Well, as anyone knew, the hills around town were wild with friends putting cows to riot, playing barometer to the atmospheric changes, taking sun, peeling like calendars each day to take more sun. To catch those friends, you must run much faster than foxes or squirrels. As for the town, it steamed with enemies grown irritable with heat, so remembering every winter argument and insult. Find friends, ditch enemies! That was the Cream-Sponge Para Litefoot motto. Does the world run too fast? Want to be alert, stay alert? Litefoot, then! Litefoot!
He held his coin bank up and heard the faint small tinkling, the airy weight of money there.
Whatever you want, he thought, you got to make your own way. During the night now, let’s find that path through the forest.…
Downtown, the store lights went out, one by one. A wind blew in the window. It was like a river going downstream and his feet wanting to go with it.
In his dreams he heard a rabbit running running running in the deep warm grass.
Old Mr Sanderson moved through his shoe store as the proprietor of a pet shop must move through his shop where there are kenneled animals from everywhere in the world, touching each one briefly along the way. Mr Sanderson brushed his hands over the shoes in the window, and some of them were like cats to him and some were like dogs; he touched each pair with concern, adjusting laces, fixing tongues. Then he stood in the exact center of the ca
rpet and looked around, nodding.
There was a sound of growing thunder.
One moment, the door to Sanderson’s Shoe Emporium was empty. The next, Douglas Spaulding stood clumsily there, staring down at his leather shoes as if these heavy things could not be pulled up out of the cement. The thunder had stopped when his shoes stopped. Now, with painful slowness, daring to look only at the money in his cupped hand, Douglas moved out of the bright sunlight of Saturday noon. He made careful stacks of nickels, dimes, and quarters on the counter, like someone playing chess and worried if the next move carried him out into sun or deep into shadow.
‘Don’t say a word!’ said Mr Sanderson.
Douglas froze.
‘First, I know just what you want to buy,’ said Mr Sanderson. ‘Second, I see you every afternoon at my window; you think I don’t see? You’re wrong. Third, to give it its full name, you want the Royal Crown Cream-Sponge Para Litefoot Tennis Shoes: “LIKE MENTHOL ON YOUR FEET!” Fourth, you want credit.’
‘No!’ cried Douglas, breathing hard, as if he’d run all night in his dreams. ‘I got something better than credit to offer!’ he gasped. ‘Before I tell, Mr Sanderson, you got to do me one small favor. Can you remember when was the last time you yourself wore a pair of Litefoot sneakers, sir?’
Mr Sanderson’s face darkened. ‘Oh, ten, twenty, say, thirty years ago. Why …?’
‘Mr Sanderson, don’t you think you owe it to your customers, sir, to at least try the tennis shoes you sell, for just one minute, so you know how they feel? People forget if they don’t keep testing things. United Cigar Store man smokes cigars, don’t he? Candy-store man samples his own stuff, I should think. So …’
‘You may have noticed,’ said the old man, ‘I’m wearing shoes.’
‘But not sneakers, sir! How you going to sell sneakers unless you can rave about them and how you going to rave about them unless you know them?’
Mr Sanderson backed off a little distance from the boy’s fever, one hand to his chin. ‘Well …’
‘Mr Sanderson,’ said Douglas, ‘you sell me something and I’ll sell you something just as valuable.’