Bradbury, Ray - SSC 13 (6 page)

 
          
As
the man came abreast the cemetery gate, Lantry stepped swiftly out. “Good
evening,” said the man, smiling.

 
          
Lantry
struck the man in the face. The man fell. Lantry bent quietly down and hit the
man a killing blow across the neck with the side of his hand.

 
          
Dragging
the body back into shadow, he stripped it and changed clothes with it. It
wouldn’t do for a fellow to go wandering about this future world with ancient
clothing on. He found a small pocket knife in the man’s coat; not much of a
knife, but enough if you knew how to handle it properly. He knew how.

 
          
He
rolled the body down into one of the already opened and exhumed graves. In a
minute he had shoveled dirt down upon it, just enough to hide it. There was
little chance of it being found. They wouldn’t dig the same grave twice.

 
          
He
adjusted himself in his new loose-fitting metallic suit. Fine, fine.

 
          
Hating.
William Lantry walked down into town, to do battle with the Earth.

 
          
II

 
          
The
Incinerator was open. It never closed. There was a wide entrance, all lighted
up with hidden illumination, there was a helicopter landing table and a beetle
drive. The town itself was dying down after another day of the dynamo. The
lights were going dim, and the only quiet, lighted spot in the town now was the
Incinerator. God, what a practical name, what an unromantic name.

 
          
William
Lantry entered the wide, well-lighted door. It was an entrance, really; there
were no doors to open or shut. People could go in and out, summer or winter,
the inside was always warm. Warm from the fire that rushed whispering up the
high round flue to where the whirlers, the propellors, the air jets pushed the
leafy gray ashes on away for a ten-mile ride down the sky.

 
          
There
was the warmth of the bakery here. The halls were floored with rubber parquet.
You couldn’t make a noise if you wanted to. Music played in hidden throats
somewhere. Not music of death at all, but music of life and the way the sun
lived inside the Incinerator; or the sun’s brother, anyway. You could hear the
flame floating inside the heavy brick wall.

 
          
William
Lantry descended a ramp. Behind him he heard a whisper and turned in time to
see a beetle stop before the entranceway. A bell rang. The music, as if at a
signal, rose to ecstatic heights. There was joy in it.

 
          
From
the beetle, which opened from the rear, some attendants stepped carrying a
golden box. It was six feet long and there were sun symbols on it. From another
beetle the relatives of the man in the box stepped and followed as the
attendants took the golden box down a ramp to a kind of altar. On the side of
the altar were the words, “WE THAT WERE BORN OF THE SUN RETURN TO THE SUN.” The
golden box was deposited upon the altar, the music leaped upward, the Guardian
of this place spoke only a few words, then the attendants picked up the golden
box, walked to a transparent wall, a safety lock, also transparent, and opened
it. The box was shoved into the glass slot. A moment later an inner lock
opened, the box was injected into the interior of the flue, and vanished
instantly in quick flame.

 
          
The
attendants walked away. The relatives without a word turned and walked out. The
music played.

 
          
William
Lantry approached the glass fire lock. He peered through the wall at the vast,
glowing never-ceasing heart of the Incinerator. It burned steadily, without a
flicker, singing to itself peacefully. It was so solid it was like a golden
river flowing up out of the earth toward the sky. Anything you put into the
river was borne upward, vanished.

 
          
Lantry
felt again his unreasoning hatred of this thing, this monster, cleansing fire.

 
          
A
man stood at his elbow. “May I help you, sir?”

 
          
“What?”
Lantry turned abruptly. “What did you say?”

 
          
“May
I be of service?”

 
          
“I—that
is—” Lantry looked quickly at the ramp and the door. His hands trembled at his
sides. “I’ve never been in here before.”

 
          
“Never?”
The Attendant was surprised.

 
          
That
had been the wrong thing to say, Lantry realized. But it was said,
nevertheless. “I mean,” he said. “Not really. I mean, when you’re a child,
somehow, you don’t pay attention. I suddenly realized tonight that I didn’t really
know
the Incinerator.”

 
          
The
Attendant smiled. “We never know anything, do we, really? I’ll be glad to show
you around.”

 
          
“Oh,
no. Never mind. It—it’s a wonderful place.”

 
          
“Yes,
it is.” The Attendant took pride in it. “One of the finest in the world, I
think.”

 
          
“I—”
Lantry felt he must explain further. “I haven’t had many relatives die on me
since I was a child. In fact, none. So, you see I haven’t been here for many
years.”

 
          
“I
see.” The Attendant’s face seemed to darken somewhat.

 
          
What’ve
I said now, thought Lantry. What in God’s name is wrong? What’ve I done? If I’m
not careful I’ll get myself shoved right into that monstrous firetrap. What’s
wrong with this fellow’s face? He seems to be giving me more than the usual
going-over.

 
          
“You
wouldn’t be one of the men who’ve just returned from Mars, would you?” asked
the Attendant.

 
          
“No.
Why do you ask?”

 
          
“No
matter.” The Attendant began to walk off. “If you want to know anything, just
ask me.”

 
          
“Just
one thing,” said Lantry.

 
          
“What’s
that?”

 
          
“This.”

 
          
Lantry
dealt him a stunning blow across the neck.

 
          
He
had watched the fire-trap operator with expert eyes. Now, with the sagging body
in his arms, he touched the button that opened the warm outer lock, placed the
body in, heard the music rise, and saw the inner lock open. The body shot out
into the river of fire. The music softened.

 
          
“Well
done, Lantry, well done.”

 
          
Barely
an instant later another Attendant entered the room. Lantry was caught with an
expression of pleased excitement on his face. The Attendant looked around as if
expecting to find someone, then he walked toward Lantry. “May I help you?”

 
          
“Just
looking,” said Lantry.

 
          
“Rather
late at night,” said the Attendant.

 
          
“I
couldn’t sleep.”

 
          
That
was the wrong answer, too. Everybody slept in this world. Nobody had insomnia.
If you did you simply turned on a hypnoray, and, sixty seconds later, you were
snoring. Oh, he was just
full
of
wrong answers. First he had made the fatal error of saying he had never been in
the Incinerator before, when he knew that all children were brought here on
tours, every year, from the time they were four, to instill the idea of the
clean fire death and the Incinerator in their minds. Death was a bright fire,
death was warmth and the sun. It was not a dark, shadowed thing. That was
important in their education. And he, pale, thoughtless fool, had immediately
gabbled out his ignorance.

 
          
And
another thing, this paleness of his. He looked at his hands and realized with
growing terror that a pale man also was nonexistent in this world. They would
suspect his paleness. That was why the first attendant had asked, “Are you one
of those men newly returned from Mars?” Here, now, this new Attendant was clean
and bright as a copper penny, his cheeks red with health and energy. Lantry hid
his pale hands in his pockets. But he was finally aware of the searching the
Attendant did on his face.

 
          
“I
mean to say,” said Lantry, “I didn’t
want
to sleep. I wanted to think.”

 
          
“Was
there a service held here a moment ago?” asked the Attendant, looking about.

 
          
“I
don’t know, I just came in.”

 
          
“I
thought I heard the fire lock open and shut.”

 
          
“I
don’t know,” said Lantry.

 
          
The
man pressed a wall button. “
Anderson
?”

 
          
A
voice replied. “Yes.”

 
          
“Locate
Saul for me, will you?”

 
          
“I’ll
ring the corridors.” A pause. “Can’t find him.”

 
          
“Thanks.”
The Attendant was puzzled. He was beginning to make little sniffing motions
with his nose. “Do you—
smell
anything?”

 
          
Lantry
sniffed. “No. Why?”

 
          
“I
smell
something.”

 
          
Lantry
took hold of the knife in his pocket. He waited.

 
          
“I
remember once when I was a kid,” said the man. “And we found a cow lying dead
in the field. It had been there two days in the hot sun. That’s what this smell
is. I wonder what it’s from?”

 
          
“Oh,
I know what it is,” said Lantry quietly. He held out his hand. “Here.”

 
          
“What?”

 
          
“Me,
of course.”

 
          
“You?”

 
          
“Dead
several hundred years.”

 
          
“You’re
an odd joker.” The Attendant was puzzled.

 
          
“Very.”
Lantry took out the knife. “Do you know what this is?”

 
          
“A
knife.”

 
          
“Do
you ever use knives on people any more?”

 
          
“How
do you mean?”

 
          
“I
mean—killing them, with knives or guns or poison?”

 
          
“You
are
an odd joker!” The man giggled
awkwardly.

 
          
“I’m
going to kill you,” said Lantry.

 
          
“Nobody
kills anybody,” said the man.

 
          
“Not
any more they don’t. But they used to, in the old days.”

 
          
“I
know they did.”

 
          
“This
will be the first murder in three hundred years. I just killed your friend. I
just shoved him into the fire lock.”

 
          
That
remark had the desired effect. It numbed the man so completely, it shocked him
so thoroughly with its illogical aspects that Lantry had time to walk forward.
He put the knife against the man’s chest. “I’m going to kill you.”

 
          
“That’s
silly,” said the man, numbly. “People don’t do that.”