He walked to the Door.
Mrs. Hanshaw said, “And you don’t think a probe will be necessary, doctor?”
He turned and said vehemently, “No, definitely not! There is nothing about the boy that requires it. Understand? Nothing.”
His fingers hesitated an inch from the combination board and the expression on his face grew lowering.
“What’s the matter, Dr. Sloane?” asked Mrs. Hanshaw.
But he didn’t hear her because he was thinking of the Door and the psychic probe and all the rising, choking tide of machinery. There is a little of the rebel in all of us, he thought.
So he said in a soft voice, as his hand fell away from the board and his feet turned away from the Door, “You know, it’s such a beautiful day that I think I’ll walk.”
<
* * * *
RAY BRADBURY
There is an adage: “No one is so boring as he who is bored himself.” True enough; and just as true is the converse. No writer is more entertaining than he whom the world entertains, and none so wonderful as he whose sense of wonder stays fresh and vivid through the labor of setting it down in words on paper. The genes and chromosomes that interlocked to form Ray Bradbury produced the perfect proof of this, a story-writing organism both worldly and naive, wide-eyed enough to perceive wonders, and mature enough to shape them into such wondrous works as Fahrenheit 451 and—
The Strawberry Window
In his dream he was shutting the front door with its strawberry windows and lemon windows and windows like white clouds and windows like clear water in a country stream. Two dozen panes squared round the one big pane, colored of fruit wines and gelatins and cool water ices. He remembered his father holding him up as a child. “Look!” And through the green glass the world was emerald, moss, and summer mint. “Look!” The lilac pane made Concord grapes of all the passersby. And at last the strawberry glass perpetually bathed the town in roseate warmth, carpeted the world in pink sunrise, and made the cut lawn seem imported from some Persian rug bazaar. The strawberry window, best of all, cured people of their paleness, warmed the cold rain, and set the blowing, shifting February snows afire.
“Ah!”
He awoke.
He heard his boys talking before he was fully out of his dream and he lay in the dark now, listening to the sad sound their talk made, like the wind blowing the white sea-bottoms into the blue hills; and then he remembered.
We’re on Mars, he thought.
“What?” His wife cried out in her sleep.
He hadn’t realized he had spoken; he lay as still as he possibly could. But now, with a strange kind of numb reality he saw his wife rise to haunt the room, her pale face staring through the small, high windows of their quonset hut at the clear but unfamiliar stars.
“Carrie,” he whispered.
She did not hear.
“Carrie,” he whispered. “There’s something I want to tell you. For a month now I’ve been wanting to say. ... tomorrow . . . tomorrow morning, there’s going to be . . .”
But his wife sat all to herself in the blue starlight and would not look at him.
He closed his eyes, tight.
If only the sun stayed up, he thought, if only there was no night. For during the day, he nailed the settlement town together, the boys were in school, and Carrie had cleaning, gardening, cooking to do. But when the sun was gone and their hands were empty of flowers or hammers and nails and arithmetics, their memories, like night birds, came home in the dark. You heard them rustle the black roof like the first rain of a new season of endless rains. You woke to the cool pattering, which was not rain, but only the slow dipping down, the flicking, brushing, touching, the whispered flight and glide of remembering toward dawn.
His wife moved, a slight turn of her head.
“Will,” she said at last, “I want to go home.”
“Carrie.”
“This isn’t home,” she said.
He saw that her eyes were wet and brimming. “Carrie. Hold on awhile.”
“I’ve got no fingernails from holding on now!”
As if she still moved in her sleep, she opened her bureau drawers and took out layers of handkerchiefs, shirts, underclothing and put it all on top of the bureau, not seeing it, letting her fingers touch and bring it out and put it down. The routine was long familiar now. She would talk and put things out and stand quietly awhile, and then later put all the things away and come, dry-faced, back to bed and dreams. He was afraid that some night she would empty every drawer, and reach for the few ancient suitcases against the wall.
“Will. . . Her voice was not bitter, but soft, featureless, and as uncolored as the moonlight that showed what she was doing. “So many nights for six months I’ve talked this way; I’m ashamed. You work hard building houses in town. A man who works so hard shouldn’t have to listen to a wife gone sad on him. But there’s nothing to do but talk it out. It’s the little things I miss most of all. I don’t know —silly things. Our front-porch swing. The wicker rocking chair, summer nights. Looking at the people walk or ride by those evenings, back in Ohio. Our black upright piano, out of tune. My Swedish cutglass. Our parlor furniture—oh, it was like a herd of elephants, I know, and all of it old. And the Chinese hanging crystals that hit when the wind blew. And talking to neighbors there, on the front porch, July nights. All those crazy, silly things . . . they’re not important. But it seems those are things that come to mind around three in the morning. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “Mars is a far place. It smells funny, looks funny, and feels funny. I think to myself nights, too. We came from a nice town.”
“It was green,” she said. “In the spring and summer. And yellow and red in the fall. And ours was a nice house; my, it was old, eighty-ninety years or so. Used to hear the house talking at night, whispering away. All the dry wood, the banisters, the front porch, the sills. Wherever you touched, it talked to you. Every room a different way. And when you had the whole house talking, it was a family around you in the dark, putting you to sleep. No other house, the kind they build nowadays, can be the same. A lot of people have got to go through and live in a house to make it mellow down all over. This place here, now, this hut, it doesn’t know I’m in it, doesn’t care if I live or die. It makes a noise like tin, and tin’s cold. It’s got no pores for the years to sink in. It’s got no cellar for you to put things away for next year and the year after that. It’s got no attic where you keep things from last year and all the other years before you were born; and without an attic, you’ve got no past. If we only had a little bit up here that was familiar, Will, then we could make room for all that’s strange. But when everything, every single thing is strange, then it takes forever to make things familiar.”
He nodded in the dark. “There’s nothing you say that I haven’t thought.”
She was looking at the moonlight where it lay upon the suitcases against the wall. He saw her move her hand down toward them.
“Carrie!”
“What?”
He swung his legs out of bed. “Carrie, I’ve done a crazy damfool thing. All these months I heard you dreaming away, scared, and the boys at night, and the wind, and Mars out there, the sea-bottoms and all, and . . .”He stopped and swallowed. “You got to understand what I did and why I did it. All the money we had in the bank a month ago, all the money we saved for ten years, I spent.”
“Will!”
“I threw it away, Carrie, I swear, I threw it away on nothing. It was going to be a surprise. But now, tonight, there you are, and there are those damned suitcases on the floor and . . .”
“Will,” she said, turning around. “You mean we’ve gone through all this, on Mars, putting away extra money every week, only to have you burn it up in a few hours?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m a crazy fool. Look, it’s not long till morning. We’ll get up early. I’ll take you down to see what I’ve done. I don’t want to tell you, I want
you to see. And if it’s no go, then, well, there’s always those suitcases and the rocket to Earth four times a week.”
She did not move. “Will, Will,” she murmured.
“Don’t say any more,” he said.
“Will, Will ... She shook her head slowly, unbelievingly. He turned away and lay back down on his own side of the bed, and she sat on the other side, and for a moment did not lie down but only sat looking at the bureau where her handkerchiefs and jewelry and clothing lay ready in neat stacks where she had left them. Outside a wind the color of moonlight stirred up the sleeping dust and powdered the air.
At last she lay back, but said nothing more and was a cold weight in the bed, staring down the long tunnel of night toward the faintest sign of morning.
* * * *
They got up in the very first light and moved in the small quonset hut without a sound. It was a pantomime prolonged almost to the time when someone might scream at the silence, as the mother and father and the boys washed and dressed and ate a quiet breakfast of toast and fruit-juice and coffee, with no one looking directly at anyone and everyone watching someone in the reflective surfaces of toaster, glassware, or cutlery, where all their faces were melted out of shape and made terribly alien in the early hour. Then, at last, they opened the quonset door and let in the air that blew across the cold blue-white Martian seas, where only the sand tides dissolved and shifted and made ghost patterns, and they stepped out under a raw and staring cold sky and began their walk toward a town which seemed no more than a motion-picture set far on ahead of them on a vast, empty stage.
“What part of town are we going to?” asked Carrie.
“The rocket depot,” he said. “But before we get there, I’ve a lot to say.”
The boys slowed down and moved behind their parents, listening. The father gazed ahead, and not once in all the time he was talking did he look at his wife or sons to see how they were taking all that he said.
“I believe in Mars,” he began, quietly. “I guess I believe some day it’ll belong to us. We’ll nail it down. We’ll settle in. We won’t turn tail and run. It came to me one day a year ago, right after we first arrived. Why did we come? I asked myself. Because, I said, because. It’s the same thing with the salmon every year. The salmon don’t know why they go where they go, but they go, anyway. Up rivers they don’t remember, up streams, jumping waterfalls, but finally making it to where they propagate and die, and the whole thing starts again. Call it racial memory, instinct, call it nothing, but there it is. And here we are.”
They walked in the silent morning with the great sky watching them and the strange blue and steam-white sands sifting about their feet on the new highway.
“So here we are. And from Mars where? Jupiter, Neptune, Pluto and on out? Right. And on out. Why? Some day the sun will blow up like a leaky furnace. Boom—there goes Earth. But maybe Mars won’t be hurt. Or if Mars is hurt maybe Pluto won’t be, or if Pluto’s hurt, then where’ll we be, our sons’ sons, that is?”
He gazed steadily up into that flawless shell of plum-colored sky.
“Why, we’ll be on some world with a number maybe; planet 6 of star system 97, planet 2 of system 99! So damn far off from here you need a nightmare to take it in! We’ll be gone, do you see, gone off away and safe! And I thought to myself, ah, ah. So that’s the reason we came to Mars, so that’s the reason men shoot off their rockets.”
“Will—”
“Let me finish; Not to make money, no. Not to see the sights, no. Those are the lies men tell, the fancy reasons they give themselves. Get rich, get famous, they say. Have fun, jump around, they say. But all the while, inside, something else is ticking along the way it ticks in salmon or whales, the way it ticks, by God, in the smallest microbe you want to name. And that little clock that ticks in everything living, you know what it says? It says get away, spread out, move along, keep swimming. Run to so many worlds and build so many towns that nothing can ever kill man. You see, Carrie? It’s not just us come to Mars, it’s the race, the whole darn human race, depending on how we make out in our lifetime. This thing is so big I want to laugh, I’m so scared stiff of it.”
He felt the boys walking steadily behind him and he felt Carrie beside him and he wanted to see her face and how she was taking all this but he didn’t look there, either.
“All this is no different than me and Dad walking the fields when I was a boy, casting seed by hand when our seeder broke down and we’d no money to fix it. It had to be done somehow, for the later crops. My God, Carrie, my God, you remember those Sunday-supplement articles, THE EARTH WILL FREEZE IN A MILLION YEARS! I bawled once, as a boy, reading articles like that. My mother asked why. I’m bawlin’ for all those poor people up ahead, I said. Don’t worry about them, mother said. But, Carrie, that’s my whole point; we are worrying about them. Or we wouldn’t be here. It matters if Man with a capital M keeps going. There’s nothing better than Man with a capital M in my book. I’m prejudiced, of course, because I’m one of the breed. But if there’s any way to get hold of that immortality men are always talking about, this is the way—spread out—seed the universe. Then you got a harvest against crop failures anywhere down the line. No matter if Earth has famines or the rust comes in. You got the new wheat lifting on Pluto or where-in-hell-ever man gets to in the next thousand years. I’m crazy with the idea, Carrie, crazy. When I finally hit on it I got so excited I wanted to grab people, you, the boys, and tell them. But, hell, I knew that wasn’t necessary. I knew a day or night would come when you’d hear that ticking in yourselves, too, and then you’d see, and no one’d have to say anything again about all this. It’s big talk, Carrie, I know, and big thoughts for a man just short of five feet five, but by all that’s holy, it’s true.”
They moved through the deserted streets of the town and listened to the echoes of their walking feet.
“And this morning?” said Carrie.
“I’m coming to this morning,” he said. “Part of me wants to go home, too. But the other part says if we go everything’s lost. So I thought, what bothers us most? Some of the things we once had. Some of the boys’ things, your things, mine. And I thought, if it takes an old thing to get a new thing started, by God, I’ll use the old thing. I remember from history books that a thousand years ago they put charcoals in a hollowed out cow-horn, blew on them during the day, so they carried their fire on marches from place to place, to start a fire every night from the sparks left over from morning. Always a new fire, but always something of the old in it. So I weighed and balanced it off. Is the Old worth all our money? I asked. No! It’s only the things we did with the Old that have any worth. Well, then, is the New worth all our money? I asked. Do you feel like investing in the day after the middle of next week? Yes! I said. If I can fight this thing that makes us want to go back to Earth, I’d dip my money in kerosene and strike a match!”
Carrie and the two boys did not move. They stood on the street, looking at him as if he were a storm that had passed over and around, almost blowing them from the ground, a storm that was now dying away.
“The freight rocket came in this morning,” he said, quietly. “Our delivery’s on it. Let’s go and pick it up.”
They walked slowly up the three steps into the rocket depot and across the echoing floor toward the freight room that was just sliding back its doors, opening for the day.
“Tell us again about the salmon,” said one of the boys.
* * * *
In the middle of the warm morning they drove out of town in a rented truck filled with great crates and boxes and parcels and packages, long ones, tall ones, short ones, flat ones, all numbered and neatly addressed to one William Prentiss, New Toledo, Mars.
“Will,” said Carrie, over and over again. “Will.”
They stopped the truck by the quonset hut and the boys jumped down and helped their mother out. For a moment, Will sat behind the wheel, and then slowly got out himself to walk around and look into the back of the truck
at the crates.
And by noon all but one of the boxes were opened and their contents placed on the sea-bottom where the family stood among them.
“Carrie. . . .”
And he led her up the old porch steps that now stood un-crated on the edge of town.
“Listen to ‘em, Carrie.”
The steps squeaked and whispered underfoot.
“What do they say, tell me what they say?”
Star Science Fiction 3 - [Anthology] Page 4