Bradbury, Ray - SSC 13 (15 page)

 
          
Henry
blew up too, but for another reason. “Are you crazy? Why’d you throw that key
away? Blast it!”

 
          
“Yes,
yes, I’m crazy, if it helps, but stay here with me!”

 
          
“I
don’t know how I can get out!”

 
          
“Quiet.
They’ll hear us. Oh, God, they’ll find us soon enough—”

 
          
Below
them, Mink’s voice. The husband stopped. There was a great universal humming
and sizzling, a screaming and giggling. Downstairs the audio-televisor buzzed
and buzzed insistently, alarmingly, violently.
Is that Helen calling?
thought Mrs. Morris.
And is she calling about what I think she’s calling about?

 
          
Footsteps
came into the house. Heavy footsteps.

 
          
“Who’s
coming in my house?” demanded Henry angrily. “Who’s tramping around down
there?”

 
          
Heavy
feet. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty of them. Fifty persons crowding into the
house. The humming. The giggling of the children. “This way!” cried Mink,
below.

 
          
“Who’s
downstairs?” roared Henry. “Who’s there!”

 
          
“Hush.
Oh, nononononono!” said his wife, weakly, holding him. “Please, be quiet. They
might go away.”

 
          
“Mom?”
called Mink. “Dad?” A pause. “Where are you?”

 
          
Heavy
footsteps, heavy, heavy,
very heavy
footsteps, came up the stairs. Mink leading them.

 
          
“Mom?”
A hesitation. “Dad?” A waiting, a silence.

 
          
Humming.
Footsteps toward the attic. Mink’s first.

 
          
They
trembled together in silence in the attic, Mr. and Mrs. Morris. For some reason
the electric humming, the queer cold light suddenly visible under the door
crack, the strange odor, and the alien sound of eagerness in Mink’s voice
finally got through to Henry Morris too. He stood, shivering, in the dark
silence, his wife beside him.

 
          
“Mom!
Dad!”

 
          
Footsteps.
A little humming sound. The attic lock melted. The door opened. Mink peered
inside, tall blue shadows behind her.

 
          
“Peekaboo,”
said Mink.

 
          
C
aptain Hart stood in the door of the
rocket. “Why don’t they come?” he said.

 
          
“Who
knows?” said Martin, his lieutenant. “Do I know, Captain?”

 
          
“What
kind of a place is this, anyway?” The captain lighted a cigar. He tossed the
match out into the glittering meadow. The grass started to burn.

 
          
Martin
moved to stamp it out with his boot.

 
          
“No,”
ordered Captain Hart, “let it burn. Maybe they’ll come see what’s happening
then, the ignorant fools.”

 
          
Martin
shrugged and withdrew his foot from the spreading fire.

 
          
Captain
Hart examined his watch. “An hour ago we landed here, and does the welcoming
committee rush out with a brass band to shake our hands? No indeed! Here we
ride millions of miles through space and the fine citizens of some silly town
on some unknown planet ignore us!” He snorted, tapping his watch. “Well, I’ll
just give them five more minutes, and then—”

 
          
“And
then what?” asked Martin, ever so politely, watching the captain’s jowls shake.

 
          
“We’ll
fly over their blasted city again and scare blazes out of them.” His voice grew
quieter. “Do you think, Martin, maybe they didn’t see us land?”

 
          
“They
saw us. They looked up as we flew over.”

 
          
“Then
why aren’t they running across the field? Are they hiding? Are they yellow?”

 
          
Martin
shook his head. “No. Take these binoculars, sir. See for yourself. Everybody’s
walking around. They’re not frightened. They—well, they don’t seem to care.”

 
          
Captain
Hart placed the binoculars to his tired eyes. Martin looked up and had time to
observe the lines and the grooves of irritation, tiredness, nervousness there.
Hart looked a million years old; he never slept, he ate little, and drove
himself on, on. Now his mouth moved, aged and drear, but sharp, under the held
binoculars.

 
          
“Really,
Martin, I don’t know why we bother. We build rockets, we go to all the trouble
of crossing space, searching for them, and this is what we get. Neglect. Look
at those idiots wander about in there. Don’t they realize how big this is? The
first space flight to touch their provincial land. How many times does that
happen? Are they that blasé?”

 
          
Martin
didn’t know.

 
          
Captain
Hart gave him back the binoculars wearily. “Why do we do it, Martin? This space
travel, I mean. Always on the go. Always searching. Our insides always tight,
never any rest.”

 
          
“Maybe
we’re looking for peace and quiet. Certainly there’s none on Earth,” said
Martin.

 
          
“No,
there’s not, is there?” Captain Hart was thoughtful, the fire damped down. “Not
since
Darwin
, eh? Not since everything went by the
board, everything we used to believe in, eh? Divine power and all that. And so
you think maybe that’s why we’re going out to the stars, eh, Martin? Looking
for our lost souls, is that it? Trying to get away from our evil planet to a
good one?”

 
          
“Perhaps,
sir. Certainly we’re looking for something.”

 
          
Captain
Hart cleared his throat and tightened back into sharpness. “Well, right now
we’re looking for the mayor of that city there. Run in, tell them who we are,
the first rocket expedition to Planet Forty-three in Star System Three. Captain
Hart sends his salutations and desires to meet the mayor. On the double!”

 
          
“Yes,
sir.” Martin walked slowly across the meadow.

 
          
“Hurry!”
snapped the captain.

 
          
“Yes,
sir!” Martin trotted away. Then he walked again, smiling to himself.

 
          
The
captain had smoked two cigars before Martin returned.

 
          
Martin
stopped and looked up into the door of the rocket, swaying, seemingly unable to
focus his eyes or think.

 
          
“Well?”
snapped Hart. “What happened? Are they coming to welcome us?”

 
          
“No.”
Martin had to lean dizzily against the ship.

 
          
“Why
not?”

 
          
“It’s
not important,” said Martin. “Give me a cigarette, please, Captain.” His
fingers groped blindly at the rising pack, for he was looking at the golden
city and blinking. He lighted one and smoked quietly for a long time.

 
          
“Say
something!” cried the captain. “Aren’t they interested in our rocket?”

 
          
Martin
said, “What? Oh. The rocket?” He inspected his cigarette. “No, they’re not
interested. Seems we came at an inopportune time.”

 
          
“Inopportune
time!”

 
          
Martin
was patient. “Captain, listen. Something big happened yesterday in that city.
It’s so big, so important that we’re second-rate—second fiddle. I’ve got to sit
down.” He lost his balance and sat heavily, gasping for air.

 
          
The
captain chewed his cigar angrily. “What happened?”

 
          
Martin
lifted his head, smoke from the burning cigarette in his fingers, blowing in
the wind. “Sir, yesterday, in that city, a remarkable man appeared—good,
intelligent, compassionate, and infinitely wise!”

 
          
The
captain glared at his lieutenant. “What’s that to do with us?”

 
          
“It’s
hard to explain. But he was a man for whom they’d waited a long time—a million
years maybe. And yesterday he walked into their city. That’s why today, sir,
our rocket landing means nothing.”

 
          
The
captain sat down violently. “Who was it? Not Ashley? He didn’t arrive in his
rocket before us and steal my glory, did he?” He seized Martin’s arm. His face
was pale and dismayed.

 
          
“Not
Ashley, sir.”

 
          
“Then
it was
Burton
! I knew it.
Burton
stole in ahead of us and ruined my landing!
You can’t trust anyone any more.”

 
          
“Not
Burton
, either, sir,” said Martin quietly.

 
          
The
captain was incredulous. “There were only three rockets. We were in the lead.
This man who got here ahead of us? What was his name!”

 
          
“He
didn’t have a name. He doesn’t need one. It would be different on every planet,
sir.”

 
          
The
captain stared at his lieutenant with hard, cynical eyes.

 
          
“Well,
what did he do that was so wonderful that nobody even looks at our ship?”

 
          
“For
one thing,” said Martin steadily, “he healed the sick and comforted the poor.
He fought hypocrisy and dirty politics and sat among the people, talking,
through the day.”

 
          
“Is
that so wonderful?”

 
          
“Yes,
Captain.”

 
          
“I
don’t get this.” The captain confronted Martin, peered into his face and eyes.
“You been drinking, eh?” He was suspicious. He backed away. “I don’t
understand.”

 
          
Martin
looked at the city. “Captain, if you don’t understand, there’s no way of
telling you.”

 
          
The
captain followed his gaze. The city was quiet and beautiful and a great peace
lay over it. The captain stepped forward, taking his cigar from his lips. He
squinted first at Martin, then at the golden spires of the buildings.

 
          
“You
don’t mean—you
can’t
mean—That man
you’re talking about couldn’t be—”

 
          
Martin
nodded. “That’s what I mean, sir.”

 
          
The
captain stood silently, not moving. He drew himself up.

 
          
“I
don’t believe it,” he said at last.

 
          
At
high noon Captain Hart walked briskly into the city, accompanied by Lieutenant
Martin and an assistant who was carrying some electrical equipment. Every once
in a while the captain laughed loudly, put his hands on his hips, and shook his
head.

 
          
The
mayor of the town confronted him. Martin set up a tripod, screwed a box onto
it, and switched on the batteries.

 
          
“Are
you the mayor?” The captain jabbed a finger out.

 
          
“I
am,” said the mayor.

 
          
The
delicate apparatus stood between them, controlled and adjusted by Martin and
the assistant. Instantaneous translations from any language were made by the
box. The words sounded crisply on the mild air of the city.

 
          
“About
this occurrence yesterday,” said the captain. “It occurred?”

 
          
“It
did.”

 
          
“You
have witnesses?”

 
          
“We
have.”

 
          
“May
we talk to them?”

 
          
“Talk
to any of us,” said the mayor. “We are all witnesses.”

 
          
In
an aside to Martin the captain said, “Mass hallucination.” To the mayor, “What
did this man—this stranger—look like?”

 
          
“That
would be hard to say,” said the mayor, smiling a little.

 
          
“Why
would it?”

 
          
“Opinions
might differ slightly.”

 
          
“I’d
like your opinion, sir, anyway,” said the captain. “Record this,” he snapped to
Martin over his shoulder. The lieutenant pressed the button of a hand recorder.

 
          
“Well,”
said the mayor of the city, “he was a very gentle and kind man. He was of a
great and knowing intelligence.”

 
          
“Yes—yes,
I know, I know.” The captain waved his fingers. “Generalizations. I want
something specific. What did he look like?”

 
          
“I
don’t believe that is important,” replied the mayor.

 
          
“It’s
very important,” said the captain sternly. “I want a description of this
fellow. If I can’t get it from you, I’ll get it from others.” To Martin, “I’m
sure it must have been Burton, pulling one of his practical jokes.”

 
          
Martin
would not look him in the face. Martin was coldly silent.

 
          
The
captain snapped his fingers. “There was something or other—a healing?”

 
          
“Many
healings,” said the mayor.

 
          
“May
I see one?”