Machineries of Joy Read online

  THE MACHINERIES OF JOY

  SHORT STORIES BY

  Ray Bradbury

  Copyright

  HarperVoyager

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  77–85 Fulham Palace Road

  Hammersmith, London, W6 8JB

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  “The Machineries of Joy,” “The Illustrated Woman,” “A Miracle of Rare Device,” “The Best of All Possible Worlds,” “The Vacation,” and “The Life Work of Juan Díaz” were originally published in Playboy. Copyright © 1960, 1961, 1962, 1963 by HMH Publishing Co., Inc.

  “Some Live like Lazarus” was originally published in Playboy as “Very Late in the Evening.” Copyright © 1960 by HMH Publishing Co., Inc.

  “The Anthem Sprinters” was originally published in Playboy as “The Queen’s Own Evaders.” Copyright © 1963 by HMH Publishing Co., Inc.

  “The Drummer Boy of Shiloh” was originally published in the Saturday Evening Post. Copyright © 1960 by the Curtis Publishing Company.

  “The Beggar on O’Connell Bridge” was originally published as “The Beggar on the Dublin Bridge” in the Saturday Evening Post. Copyright © 1961 by the Curtis Publishing Company.

  “And the Sailor, Home from the Sea” was originally published in the Saturday Evening Post as “Forever Voyage.” Copyright © 1960 by the Curtis Publishing Company.

  “Tyrannosaurus Rex” was originally published in the Saturday Evening Post as “The Prehistoric Producer.” Copyright © 1962 by the Curtis Publishing Company.

  “Death and the Maiden” and “To the Chicago Abyss” were originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Copyright © 1960, 1963 by Mercury Press, Inc.

  Cover design by Mike Topping.

  Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

  Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

  Ray Bradbury asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

  Ebook Edition © JULY 2013 ISBN: 9780007539833

  Version: 2014–07–18

  For Ramona,

  who cried when she heard

  that the Hound of the

  Baskervilles was dead …

  For Susan,

  who snorted at the same news …

  For Bettina,

  who laughed …

  And for Alexandra,

  who told everyone to

  just get out of the way …

  This book, dear daughters,

  with four different kinds

  of love, for you.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  The Machineries of Joy

  The One Who Waits

  Tyrannosaurus Rex

  The Vacation

  The Drummer Boy of Shiloh

  Boys! Raise Giant Mushrooms in Your Cellar!

  Almost the End of the World

  Perhaps we are Going Away

  And the Sailor, Home from the Sea

  El Día de Muerte

  The Illustrated Woman

  Some Live Like Lazarus

  A Miracle of Rare Device

  And So Died Riabouchinska

  The Beggar on O’connell Bridge

  Death and the Maiden

  A Flight of Ravens

  The Best of all Possible Worlds

  The Lifework of Juan Díaz

  To the Chicago Abyss

  The Anthem Sprinters

  Keep Reading

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  “Somewhere,” said Father Vittorini, “did Blake not speak of the Machineries of Joy? That is, did not God promote environments, then intimidate these Natures by provoking the existence of flesh, toy men and women, such as are we all? And thus happily sent forth, at our best, with good grace and fine wit, on calm noons, in fair climes. are we not God’s Machineries of Joy?”

  “If Blake said that,” said Father Brian, “he never lived in Dublin.”

  The Machineries of Joy

  Father Brian delayed going below to breakfast because he thought he heard Father Vittorini down there, laughing. Vittorini, as usual, was dining alone. So who was there to laugh with, or at?

  Us, thought Father Brian, that’s who.

  He listened again.

  Across the hall Father Kelly too was hiding, or meditating, rather, in his room.

  They never let Vittorini finish breakfast, no, they always managed to join him as he chewed his last bit of toast. Otherwise they could not have borne their guilt through the day.

  Still, that was laughter, was it not, belowstairs? Father Vittorini had ferreted out something in the morning Times. Or, worse, had he stayed up half the night with the unholy ghost, that television set which stood in the entry like an unwelcome guest, one foot in whimsy, the other in the doldrums? And, his mind bleached by the electronic beast, was Vittorini now planning some bright fine new devilment, the cogs wheeling in his soundless mind, seated and deliberately fasting, hoping to lure them down curious at the sound of his Italian humors?

  “Ah, God.” Father Brian sighed and fingered the envelope he had prepared the previous night. He had tucked it in his coat as a protective measure should he decide to hand it to Pastor Sheldon. Would Father Vittorini detect it through the cloth with his quick dark X-ray vision?

  Father Brian pressed his hand firmly along his lapel to squash any merest outline of his request for transferral to another parish.

  “Here goes.”

  And, breathing a prayer, Father Brian went downstairs.

  “Ah, Father Brian!”

  Vittorini looked up from his still full cereal bowl. The brute had not even so much as sugared his corn flakes yet.

  Father Brian felt as if he had stepped into an empty elevator shaft.

  Impulsively he put out a hand to save himself. It touched the top of the television set. The set was warm. He could not help saying, “Did you have a seance here last night?”

  “I sat up with the set, yes.”

  “Sat up is right!” snorted Father Brian. “One does sit up, doesn’t one, with the sick, or the dead? I used to be handy with the ouija board myself. There was more brains in that.” He turned from the electrical moron to survey Vittorini. “And did you hear far cries and banshee wails from, what is it? Canaveral?”

  “They called off the shot at three A.M.”

  “And you here now, looking daisy-fresh.” Father Brian advanced, shaking his head. “What’s true is not always what’s fair.”

  Vittorini now vigorously doused his fl
akes with milk. “But you, Father Brian, you look as if you made the grand tour of Hell during the night.”

  Fortunately, at this point Father Kelly entered. He froze when he too saw how little along Vittorini was with his fortifiers. He muttered to both priests, seated himself, and glanced over at the perturbed Father Brian.

  “True, William, you look half gone. Insomnia?”

  “A touch.”

  Father Kelly eyed both men, his head to one side. “What goes on here? Did something happen while I was out last night?”

  “We had a small discussion,” said Father Brian, toying with the dread flakes of corn.

  “Small discussion!” said Father Vittorini. He might have laughed, but caught himself and said simply, “The Irish priest is worried by the Italian Pope.”

  “Now, Father Vittorini,” said Kelly.

  “Let him run on,” said Father Brian.

  “Thank you for your permission,” said Vittorini, very politely and with a friendly nod. “Il Papa is a constant source of reverent irritation to at least some if not all of the Irish clergy. Why not a pope named Nolan? Why not a green instead of a red hat? Why not, for that matter, move Saint Peter’s Cathedral to Cork or Dublin, come the twenty-fifth century?”

  “I hope nobody said that,” said Father Kelly.

  “I am an angry man,” said Father Brian. “In my anger I might have inferred it.”

  “Angry, why? And inferred for what reason?”

  “Did you hear what he just said about the twenty-fifth century?” asked Father Brian. “Well, it’s when Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers fly in through the baptistry transom that yours truly hunts for the exits.”

  Father Kelly sighed. “Ah, God, is it that joke again?”

  Father Brian felt the blood burn his cheeks, but fought to send it back to cooler regions of his body.

  “Joke? It’s off and beyond that. For a month now it’s Canaveral this and trajectories and astronauts that. You’d think it was Fourth of July, he’s up half each night with the rockets. I mean, now, what kind of life is it, from midnight on, carousing about the entryway with that Medusa machine which freezes your intellect if ever you stare at it? I cannot sleep for feeling the whole rectory will blast off any minute.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Father Kelly. “But what’s all this about the Pope?” “Not the new one, the one before the last,” said Brian wearily. “Show him the clipping, Father Vittorini.” Vittorini hesitated. “Show it,” insisted Brian, firmly.

  Father Vittorini brought forth a small press clipping and put it on the table.

  Upside down, even, Father Brian could read the bad news: “POPE BLESSES ASSAULT ON SPACE.”

  Father Kelly reached one finger out to touch the cutting gingerly. He intoned the news story half aloud, underlining each word with his fingernail:

  CASTEL GANDOLFO, ITALY, SEPT. 20.—Pope Pius XII gave his blessing today to mankind’s efforts to conquer space.

  The Pontiff told delegates to the International Astronautical Congress, “God has no intention of setting a limit to the efforts of man to conquer space.”

  The 400 delegates to the 22-nation congress were received by the Pope at his summer residence here.

  “This Astronautic Congress has become one of great importance at this time of man’s exploration of outer space,” the Pope said. “It should concern all humanity.… Man has to make the effort to put himself in new orientation with God and his universe.”

  Father Kelly’s voice trailed off.

  “When did this story appear?”

  “In 1956.”

  “That long back?” Father Kelly laid the thing down. “I didn’t read it.”

  “It seems,” said Father Brian, “you and I, Father, don’t read much of anything.”

  “Anyone could overlook it,” said Kelly. “It’s a teeny-weeny article.”

  “With a very large idea in it,” added Father Vittorini, his good humor prevailing.

  “The point is—”

  “The point is,” said Vittorini, “when first I spoke of this piece, grave doubts were cast on my veracity. Now we see I have cleaved close by the truth.”

  “Sure,” said Father Brian quickly, “but as our poet William Blake put it, ‘A truth that’s told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent.’”

  “Yes.” Vittorini relaxed further into his amiability. “And didn’t Blake also write

  He who doubts from what he sees,

  Will ne’er believe, do what you please.

  If the Sun and Moon should doubt

  They’d immediately go out.

  Most appropriate,” added the Italian priest, “for the Space Age.”

  Father Brian stared at the outrageous man.

  “I’ll thank you not to quote our Blake at us.”

  “Your Blake?” said the slender pale man with the softly glowing dark hair. “Strange, I’d always thought him English.”

  “The poetry of Blake,” said Father Brian, “was always a great comfort to my mother. It was she told me there was Irish blood on his maternal side.”

  “I will graciously accept that,” said Father Vittorini. “But back to the newspaper story. Now that we’ve found it, it seems a good time to do some research on Pius the Twelfth’s encyclical.”

  Father Brian’s wariness, which was a second set of nerves under his skin, prickled alert.

  “What encyclical is that?”

  “Why, the one on space travel.”

  “He didn’t do that?”

  “He did.”

  “On space travel, a special encyclical?”

  “A special one.”

  Both Irish priests were near onto being flung back in their chairs by the blast.

  Father Vittorini made the picky motions of a man cleaning up after a detonation, finding lint on his coat sleeve, a crumb or two of toast on the tablecloth.

  “Wasn’t it enough,” said Brian, in a dying voice, “he shook hands with the astronaut bunch and told them well done and all that, but he had to go on and write at length about it?”

  “It was not enough,” said Father Vittorini. “He wished, I hear, to comment further on the problems of life on other worlds, and its effect on Christian thinking.”

  Each of these words, precisely spoken, drove the two other men farther back in their chairs.

  “You hear?” said Father Brian. “You haven’t read it yourself yet?”

  “No, but I intend—”

  “You intend everything and mean worse. Sometimes, Father Vittorini, you do not talk, and I hate to say this, like a priest of the Mother Church at all.”

  “I talk,” replied Vittorini, “like an Italian priest somehow caught and trying to preserve surface tension treading an ecclesiastical bog where I am outnumbered by a great herd of clerics named Shaughnessy and Nulty and Flannery that mill and stampede like caribou or bison every time I so much as whisper ‘papal bull.’”

  “There is no doubt in my mind”—and here Father Brian squinted off in the general direction of the Vatican, itself—“that it was you, if you could’ve been there, might’ve put the Holy Father up to this whole space-travel monkeyshines.”

  “I?”

  “You! It’s you, is it not, certainly not us, that lugs in the magazines by the carload with the rocket ships on the shiny covers and the filthy green monsters with six eyes and seventeen gadgets chasing after half-draped females on some moon or other? You I hear late nights doing the countdowns from ten, nine, eight on down to one, in tandem with the beast TV, so we lie aching for the dread concussions to knock the fillings from our teeth. Between one Italian here and another at Castel Gandolfo, may God forgive me, you’ve managed to depress the entire Irish clergy!”

  “Peace,” said Father Kelly at last, “both of you.”

  “And peace it is, one way or another I’ll have it,” said Father Brian, taking the envelope from his pocket.

  “Put that away,” said Father Kelly, sensing what must be in the envelope.


  “Please give this to Pastor Sheldon for me.”

  Father Brian rose heavily and peered about to find the door and some way out of the room. He was suddenly gone.

  “Now see what you’ve done!” said Father Kelly.

  Father Vittorini, truly shocked, had stopped eating. “But, Father, all along I thought it was an amiable squabble, with him putting on and me putting on, him playing it loud and me soft.”

  “Well, you’ve played it too long, and the blasted fun turned serious!” said Kelly. “Ah, you don’t know William like I do. You’ve really torn him.”

  “I’ll do my best to mend—”

  “You’ll mend the seat of your pants! Get out of the way, this is my job now.” Father Kelly grabbed the envelope off the table and held it up to the light, “The X ray of a poor man’s soul. Ah, God.”

  He hurried upstairs. “Father Brian?” he called. He slowed. “Father?” He tapped at the door. “William?”

  In the breakfast room, alone once more, Father Vittorini remembered the last few flakes in his mouth. They now had no taste. It took him a long slow while to get them down.

  It was only after lunch that Father Kelly cornered Father Brian in the dreary little garden behind the rectory and handed back the envelope.

  “Willy, I want you to tear this up. I won’t have you quitting in the middle of the game. How long has all this gone on between you two?”

  Father Brian sighed and held but did not rip the envelope. “It sort of crept upon us. It was me at first spelling the Irish writers and him pronouncing the Italian operas. Then me describing the Book of Kells in Dublin and him touring me through the Renaissance. Thank God for small favors, he didn’t discover the papal encyclical on the blasted space traveling sooner, or I’d have transferred myself to a monkery where the fathers keep silence as a vow. But even there, I fear, he’d follow and count down the Canaveral blastoffs in sign language. What a Devil’s advocate that man would make!”

  “Father!”

  “I’ll do penance for that later. It’s just this dark otter, this seal, he frolics with Church dogma as if it was a candy-striped bouncy ball. It’s all very well to have seals cavorting, but I say don’t mix them with the true fanatics, such as you and me! Excuse the pride, Father, but there does seem to be a variation on the true theme every time you get them piccolo players in amongst us harpers, and don’t you agree?”