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

the flame end three miles from its source. Done. He turned to Lyte. “But I don’t understand,” she said.

He opened the airlock door. “It’s bitter cold out, and half an hour yet till dawn. If I run parallel to the flame from the machine, close enough to it, there’ll not be much heat but enough to sustain life, anyway.”

“It doesn’t sound safe,” Lyte protested.

“Nothing does, on this world.” He moved forward. “I’ll have a half hour start. That should be enough to reach the cliffs.”

“But if the machine should fail while you’re still running near its beam?”

“Let’s not think of that,” he said.

A moment later he was outside. He staggered as if kicked in the stomach. His heart almost exploded in him. The environment of his world forced him into swift living again. He felt his pulse rise, kicking through his veins.

The night was cold as death. The heat ray from the ship sliced across the valley, humming, solid and warm. He moved next to it, very close. One misstep in his running and⁠—

“I’ll be back,” he called to Lyte.

He and the ray of light went together.

In the early morning the peoples in the caves saw the long finger of orange incandescence and the weird whitish apparition floating, running along beside it. There was muttering and superstition.

So when Sim finally reached the cliffs of his childhood he saw alien peoples swarming there. There were no familiar faces. Then he realized how foolish it was to expect familiar faces. One of the older men glared down at him. “Who’re you?” he shouted. “Are you from the enemy cliff? What’s your name?”

“I am Sim, the son of Sim!”

“Sim!”

An old woman shrieked from the cliff above him. She came hobbling down the stone pathway. “Sim, Sim, it is you!”

He looked at her, frankly bewildered. “But I don’t know you,” he murmured.

“Sim, don’t you recognize me? Oh, Sim, it’s me! Dark!”

“Dark!”

He felt sick at his stomach. She fell into his arms. This old, trembling woman with the half-blind eyes, his sister.

Another face appeared above. That of an old man. A cruel, bitter face. It looked down at Sim and snarled. “Drive him away!” cried the old man. “He comes from the cliff of the enemy. He’s lived there! He’s still young! Those who go there can never come back among us. Disloyal beast!” And a rock hurtled down.

Sim leaped aside, pulling the old woman with him.

A roar came from the people. They ran toward Sim, shaking their fists. “Kill him, kill him!” raved the old man, and Sim did not know who he was.

“Stop!” Sim held out his hands. “I come from the ship!”

“The ship?” The people slowed. Dark clung to him, looking up into his young face, puzzling over its smoothness.

“Kill him, kill him, kill him!” croaked the old man, and picked up another rock.

“I offer you ten days, twenty days, thirty more days of life!”

The people stopped. Their mouths hung open. Their eyes were incredulous.

“Thirty days?” It was repeated again and again. “How?”

“Come back to the ship with me. Inside it, one can live forever!”

The old man lifted high a rock, then, choking, fell forward in an apoplectic fit, and tumbled down the rocks to lie at Sim’s feet.

Sim bent to peer at the ancient one, at the bleary, dead eyes, the loose, sneering lips, the crumpled, quiet body.

“Chion!”

“Yes,” said Dark behind him, in a croaking, strange voice. “Your enemy. Chion.”

That night a thousand warriors started for the ship as if going to war. The water ran in the new channel. Five hundred of them were drowned or lost behind in the cold. The others, with Sim, got through to the ship.

Lyte awaited them, and threw wide the metal door.

The weeks passed. Generations lived and died in the cliffs, while the five hundred workers labored over the ship, learning its functions and its parts.

On the last day they disbanded. Each ran to his station. Now there was a destiny of travel who still remained behind.

Sim touched the control plates under his fingers.

Lyte, rubbing her eyes, came and sat on the floor next to him, resting her head against his knee, drowsily. “I had a dream,” she said, looking off at something far away. “I dreamed I lived in caves in a cliff on a cold-hot planet where people grew old and died in eight days and were burnt.”

“What an impossible dream,” said Sim. “People couldn’t possibly live in such a nightmare. Forget it. You’re awake now.”

He touched the plates gently. The ship rose and moved into space. Sim was right. The nightmare was over at last.

Rocket Summer3

The crowd gathered to make a curious noise this cold grey morning before the scheduled Birth. They arrived in gleaming scarlet tumblebugs and yellow plastic beetles, yawning and singing and ready. The Birth was a big thing for them.

He stood alone up in his high office tower window, watching them with a sad impatience in his grey eyes. His name was William Stanley, president of the company that owned this building and all those other work-hangars down on the tarmac, and all that landing field stretching two miles off into the Jersey mists. William Stanley was thinking about the Birth.

The Birth of what? Stanley’s large, finely sculptured head felt heavier, older. Science, with a scalpel of intense flame would slash wide the skulls of engineers, chemists, mechanics in a titanic Caesarian, and out would come the Rocket!

“Yezzir! Yezzir!” he heard the far-off, faint and raucous declarations of the vendors and hawkers. “Buy ya Rocket Toys! Buy ya Rocket Games! Rocket Pictures! Rocket soap! Rocket teethers for the tiny-tot! Rocket, Rocket, Rocket! Hey!”

Shutting the open glassite frame before him, his thin lips drew tight. Morning after morning America sent her pilgrims to this shrine. They peered in over the translucent restraint barrier as if the Rocket were a caged beast.

He saw one small girl drop her Rocket toy. It shattered, and was folded under by the moving crowd’s feet.

“Mr. Stanley?”

“Uh?