Short Fiction by Ray Bradbury (autobiographies to read .txt) 📕

Hathaway only knew he was picked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn’t long in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on to his camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that had been of the meteor! A sweeter one still of Marnagan beating hell out of the controls and keeping his words to himself until just now.

It got quiet. It got so quiet you could almost hear the asteroids rushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking a tom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs.

Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was the nearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and you ended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman’s arms, diving at a hunk of metal death. What a fade-out!

“Irish!” he heard himself say. “Is this it?”

“Is this what?” yelled Marnagan inside his helmet.

“Is this where the Big Producer yells cut!?”

Marnagan fumed. “I’ll die when I’m damned good and ready. And when I’m ready I’ll inform you and you can picture me profile for Cosmic Films!”

They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand of gravity; listening to each other’s breathing hard in the earphones.

The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end over and stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed; he and Marnagan rattled around⁠—human dice in a croupier’s cup. The shell of the ship burst, air and energy flung out.

Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinking quick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reach film, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like this one! His brain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of his camera.

Silence came and engulfed all the noise, ate it up and swallowed it. Hathaway shook his head, instinctively grabbed at the camera locked to his mid-belt. There was nothing but stars, twisted wreckage, cold that pierced through his vac-suit, and silence. He wriggled out of the wreckage into that silence.

He didn’t know what he was doing until he found the camera in his fingers as if it had grown there when he was born. He stood there, thinking “Well, I’ll at least have a few good scenes on film. I’ll⁠—”

A hunk of metal teetered, fell with a crash. Marnagan elevated seven feet of bellowing manhood from the wreck.

“Hold it!” cracked Hathaway’s high voice. Marnagan froze. The camera whirred. “Low angle shot; Interplanetary Patrolman emerges unscathed from asteroid crackup. Swell stuff. I’ll get a raise for this!”

“From the toe of me boot!” snarled Marnagan brusquely. Oxen shoulders flexed inside his vac-suit. “I might’ve died in there, and you nursin’ that film-contraption!”

Hathaway felt funny inside, suddenly. “I never thought of that. Marnagan die? I just took it for granted you’d come through. You always have. Funny, but you don’t think about dying. You try not to.” Hathaway stared at his gloved hand, but the gloving was so thick and heavy he couldn’t tell if it was shaking. Muscles in his bony face went down, pale. “Where are we?”

“A million miles from nobody.”

They stood in the middle of a pocked, time-eroded meteor plain that stretched off, dipping down into silent indigo and a rash of stars. Overhead, the sun poised; black and stars all around it, making it look sick.

“If we walk in opposite directions, Click Hathaway, we’d be shaking hands the other side of this rock in two hours.” Marnagan shook his mop of dusty red hair. “And I promised the boys at Luna Base this time I’d capture that Gunther lad!”

His voice stopped and the silence spoke.

Hathaway felt his heart pumping slow, hot pumps of blood. “I checked my oxygen, Irish. Sixty minutes of breathing left.”

The silence punctuated that sentence, too. Upon the sharp meteoric rocks Hathaway saw the tangled insides of the radio, the food supply mashed and scattered. They were lucky to have escaped. Or was suffocation a better death⁠ ⁠… ? Sixty minutes.

They stood and looked at one another.

“Damn that meteor!” said Marnagan, hotly.

Hathaway got hold of an idea; remembering something. He said it out: “Somebody tossed that meteor, Irish. I took a picture of it, looked it right in the eye when it rolled at us, and it was poker-hot. Space-meteors are never hot and glowing. If it’s proof you want, I’ve got it here, on film.”

Marnagan winced his freckled square of face. “It’s not proof we need now, Click. Oxygen. And then food. And then some way back to Earth.”

Hathaway went on saying his thoughts: “This is Gunther’s work. He’s here somewhere, probably laughing his guts out at the job he did us. Oh, God, this would make great news-release stuff if we ever get back to Earth. I.P.’s Irish Marnagan, temporarily indisposed by a pirate whose dirty face has never been seen, Gunther by name, finally wins through to a triumphant finish. Photographed on the spot, in color, by yours truly, Click Hathaway. Cosmic Films, please notice.”

They started walking, fast, over the pocked, rubbled plain toward a bony ridge of metal. They kept their eyes wide and awake. There wasn’t much to see, but it was better than standing still, waiting.

Marnagan said, “We’re working on margin, and we got nothin’ to sweat with except your suspicions about this not being an accident. We got fifty minutes to prove you’re right. After that⁠—right or wrong⁠—you’ll be Cosmic Films prettiest unmoving, unbreathin’ genius. But talk all you like, Click. It’s times like this when we all need words, any words, on our tongues. You got your camera and your scoop. Talk about it. As for me⁠—” he twisted his glossy red face. “Keeping alive is me hobby. And this sort of two-bit death I did not order.”

Click nodded. “Gunther knows how you’d hate dying this way, Irish. It’s irony clean through. That’s probably why he planned the meteor and the crash this way.”

Marnagan said nothing, but his thick lips went down at the corners, far down, and