The Lost Bradbury Read online

  He expected her to answer—to say something, anything—but she was silent. For a long time Skeel sat motionless on the floor of the cave, fists pressed hard against his helmet.

  Nadia glanced up at the little dial above her eyes, inside the oxygen helmet. “Less than three hours now,” she announced.

  Skeel rose to his feet. “Come on,” he said calmly. “I know the way out now.”

  “Out of these caves, do you mean?” Again her eyes were upon him steadily, those blue eyes that held something less than a crystal hardness now.

  Skeel looked away. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

  * * * *

  They walked back to the cave entrance where the darkness surged in. But Skeel stopped just short of it. Approaching the cave wall, he touched one of the button-creatures. Instantly its light went out. Slowly, gingerly he detached it from the wall. It was rather gelatinous, he noticed, but was equipped with tiny, barely discernible sucker-cups.

  Holding the grayish thing in his hand, Skeel approached Nadia and reached out toward her space-suited figure. She shrank back with a little shudder of loathing.

  “Hold still!” Skeel demanded. “It’s not going to hurt you, and it may save your life!”

  He placed it on her shoulder where it remained quiescent for about ten seconds. Then it changed into a little disk of light again, like a miniature beacon.

  “You see, it works! I should have thought of this before. Walk around! Your natural stride.”

  Nadia walked. At her second step the thing blinked off. She waited until it came on again, then carefully tip-toed around the cave. This time the creature’s light stayed on.

  * * * *

  Skeel nodded. “This isn’t going to be fun, but it’s the only way! We’ve got to plaster each other with those things until we become walking pillars of light! Then we’ll tip-toe out through the darkness, through those slinking nightmare things until we reach my cruiser. It’ll be an ordeal, agony. Think you can do it, Miller?”

  She nodded, suppressing a shudder at the thought of those gelatinous blobs covering her body.

  “All right,” Skeel said. “You go to work on me first. Place them on my arms, shoulders and torso. But cover every inch! The more light we have, the easier we’ll get through those beasts out there.”

  She went to work, biting her lip every time she touched one of the light-creatures; but before she was through, she had overcome her repugnance. Skeel was soon bathed in a brilliant white halo from the waist up.

  “I think I know the secret of these things,” Skeel said as he busied himself decorating her. They must come out onto the surface when the sun is there. They store up enough light energy to last them through the dark period. Somehow they assimilate the heat energy. This is cold light.” As a finishing touch he placed some of the things in a little crown of light around her helmet.

  “Now for the real test,” he pronounced grimly. “We’ll walk side by side. Don’t get nervous, Miller, and above all walk slowly, on tip-toe. If these things go out, it’s our finish!”

  Like figures in a slow-motion film they moved across the cave toward the outer darkness.

  Immediately they knew it was going to be a nightmare of agony. The wall of night seemed to flutter before them and then recede. Receding with the darkness, too, were half-seen grayish shapes close to the ground. But behind and all around them the darkness closed in again. The night creatures closed in too, staying just beyond the little circle of light.

  Their tentacles were long and sensitive and reached in close to the ground where the light hardly shone. One of them whipped against Skeel’s ankles, and he felt the strength of it. He heard Nadia gasp and knew the same thing had happened to her. But they didn’t stop in their slow, tip-toeing stride.

  “Steady!” he warned. “Once we get outside, maybe they won’t be so thick.”

  * * * *

  In a few minutes that seemed like hours, they were outside and could see the glint of stars against a cobalt sky. They paused to rest. Their eyes were becoming used to the dark and they could see hordes of the grayish night things surging in toward them.

  “Afraid I was wrong,” Skeel murmured. “They’re worse out here.”

  “Just so they keep their distance,” Nadia shuddered. “If they come any closer, I—I might get panicky and run for it.”

  “You’d never make it,” he warned. They moved on, careful step by step, pushing the darkness back. They made nearly half the distance before their tired muscles forced them to rest again. The surging shapes seemed to be getting bolder. Skeel could feel them all around his feet now. He had to fight the impulse to run, to kick out at them, anything to keep them away. Instead, he bent slowly, reaching out with his blazing arms. The shapes retreated momentarily.

  “Afraid we’d better not rest any more,” he said. “Come on, we’ll try to make it to the cruiser this time.” They could see the dark, looming shape of it perhaps a hundred yards away. It seemed like a hundred miles.

  Once his left arm bumped into her. Every light-creature on that side blinked off. In about ten seconds they came on again, as he held his arm motionless. He moved a little away, turned his head and looked at her. She was staring straight ahead. He saw her profile beneath the little halo of light around her helmet; that light enhanced every taut little muscle in her face, and Skeel suddenly realized her face was never meant to be drawn up into such a tight, grim mask. She was going along on raw nerve again. Skeel swore softly beneath his breath, marveling at her.

  * * * *

  Strange, too, how swiftly and clearly he could think in all this nightmare slowness and blackness. He had never seen things so clearly before. Never—

  His mind came back abruptly as something whipped around his ankles. His feet seemed caught in a net of lashing, spiked tentacles! Slowly, with some effort, he managed to disentangle himself. He took another step forward. His foot came down on something soft and squirmy which lashed up at him. He took a hasty step backward, lost his footing and fell prone in utter darkness as every light-button on him blinked out.

  For a single horrified instant Nadia stood there, despite the tentacles moving around her own feet.

  “Keep going!” Skeel grated from the darkness where he lay. “You can make it now; don’t mind me!”

  But she didn’t move, except to lean far over in Skeel’s direction. Slowly she lowered herself, so that her entire light-glowing body almost covered his. All the buttons on her right arm blinked out as her hand touched the ground with a slight jar. She prayed that the pounding of her heart wouldn’t cause the others to go out! Tensely she propped herself there, scarcely breathing, watching the dim lashing horrors. A dozen tentacles seemed to come from one central body. At the end of each tentacle was a bulbous thing with wiry, waving antennae, and below the antennae were gaping slashes that opened and closed and might have been lips.

  With sickening horror she saw some of the bulbous things pounding at Skeel’s face-plate. Others tore at his fabricoid suit. Slowly she shifted her weight, brought her left arm around and moved it toward them. The things retreated from the light slowly. Seconds later Skeel’s own light-buttons began flashing on, and he rose gingerly to his feet.

  His face was white. For a moment he stood quite still and stared at her. “That does it,” he muttered, but she didn’t know what he meant. Carefully now she forged her way ahead. Skeel moved too, ever more slowly, staying always behind her.

  * * * *

  The cruiser was scarcely fifty feet ahead, and she had almost reached it. It was now or never, Skeel knew. She would gain the cruiser and blast back to Ceres Base. He had told her his story, confessed to being a killer—the killer of fourteen men! She would take that story back to Ceres Base, and they would believe her. There was only one thing to do.

  Her voice
came to him just then. “Hurry! I think you can run and make it now!”

  “No, there’s not any hurry. Not now, Miller.”

  She must have detected some strange note in his voice. She looked back just as he was drawing the electro from his belt. Carefully he raised his arm in a straight line.

  Skeel saw the sudden startled look on her white face. He saw her mouth open, but she did not have time to speak.

  “I guess this is it, Miller! Number fifteen!” He pulled the trigger, and the electro hissed its flame.

  * * *

  The men at Ceres Base stood in excited little groups near the dome air-lock. Every eye was on the gigantic V-panel reflecting the tiny speck that far out in space was curving in toward them. A solo cruiser, yes—but which one? The black one the girl had used? Or was this Skeel returning from another of his murderous missions? Every man there knew about the plot by now.

  Anders stood there now, his face a picture of conflicting emotions. A thousand times he had blamed himself for allowing Nadia Miller to go out on that crazy mission! He had lived through a thousand agonies of waiting.

  The dot grew larger in the Visipanel and resolved at last into the bluish-silver cruiser of the Space Patrol. Anders’ face went suddenly white; then a fever of fury burned through him.

  If this was Skeel—If Nadia didn’t come back—

  Minutes later the blue and silver cruiser neared the dome. The lock automatically opened. It swept gracefully in, and powerful magniplates brought it to rest. A figure climbed wearily out and walked toward the men.

  “Nadia!” Anders cried, and leaped forward eagerly to help her out of the space suit. “Are you all right? What about Skeel?”

  * * * *

  She smiled at him. “Jim Skeel won’t come back.” Quickly she related the story of the caves and the light-button creatures and their perilous path through the night beasts toward the cruiser.

  “Skeel was a changed man in those final minutes,” she explained. “He must have known what he was going to do—what he had to do. It was all so deliberate. I had almost reached the cruiser, not realizing he was so far behind me. I turned just in time to see him raise the weapon. He called, ‘Number fifteen!’ Then he fired.”

  “Fired at you?” Anders was puzzled.

  “No. I thought he meant to. But the beam didn’t come within twenty feet of me. He merely fired at random, and instantly all the light-things on him went out. Then I—I could see those horrible night beasts rushing in—from all sides—waves of them —” She buried her face in her hands, trying to shut out the memory.

  “The electro-beam,” Anders said musingly. “Yes, that would do it. You fire one of those pistols, especially at full power, and it sends a slight electric shock all through you. But Skeel would have known that! Why did he do it? If it was to save you, now, I might understand; but you say you had already gained the ship—”

  “To save me?” Nadia murmured. “No. I think it was to save himself.”

  Anders still looked a little puzzled. “But what about your brother? Did Skeel confess anything?”

  She looked up and her eyes were shining, but she was not crying. Within her was only a vast, singing quiet too deep for tears.

  “My brother, Commander? When you enter that case into the records, you might say—you may say, Commander, that my brother was killed when he fell off a cliff.”

  TOMORROW AND TOMORROW

  “Tomorrow and Tomorrow” was first published in Fantastic Adventures in May 1947. It was later reprinted in Fantastic (November 1965) and anthologized twice in the British anthologyTime Untamed (1967 and 1972).

  Up to the time he opened the door, the day hadn’t been any different from all the other days. Walking Los Angeles hunting for a job he couldn’t find, looking in store windows at food he couldn’t buy, and wondering why the habit of living got so strong you couldn’t break it even after you didn’t want it any longer.

  It hadn’t been quite so bad as long as he had his typewriter to come home to. He could thumb his nose at the world outside for a while and build new ones—bright shiny worlds where he was a very glamorous guy indeed and never went hungry. He could kid himself, even, that some day he might be a writer, rolling in money and adoration.

  He’d rather have parted with his right leg than his typewriter. But none of the Uncle Bennies were paying money for right legs, and a guy has to eat and pay his rent.

  “Oh yeah?” he snarled at the door panel. “Name two reasons why?”

  He couldn’t name one. He unlocked it, closed it behind him, turned on the lights, and started to take off his hat.

  He didn’t. He forgot he had a hat, or a head under it. He just stood, staring.

  There was a typewriter on the floor.

  It was his room, all right. Cracked ceiling, dingy paper, blue-striped pajamas trailing off an unmade wall bed, the memory of this morning’s coffee.

  It was not his typewriter.

  There was no possible way for any typewriter to get there. That was bad enough, like finding a camel in the bathtub. But even at that, an ordinary camel you could take. It was the green ones with wings that really bothered you.

  The typewriter was like that. It was big, and made of something that looked like polished silver, and it shimmered like a fish under water. It was so streamlined that it flowed into itself with an eerie feeling of motion. There was a sheet of fine crisp paper in the roller, and a lot of unfamiliar crimson keys on the board.

  He closed his eyes, shook his head, and looked again. It was still there. He said aloud:

  “I have not been drinking. My name is Steve Temple. I live at 221 East 9th Street, and I owe three weeks rent. I have not had any dinner.”

  His voice sounded all right. It made sense.

  The typewriter didn’t, but it stayed there just the same.

  He took a deep breath and walked around it, carefully. It had four sides. It looked solid, except for the shimmer. It squatted calmly on the dingy rug and let its beautiful streamlining flow around on itself, looking as though it had grown there with the building.

  “All right,” he said to the typewriter. “You’re here. And you’re scaring hell out of me, if it makes you any happier. Now what?”

  It began to type, all by itself in the middle of the floor.

  He didn’t move. He couldn’t. He crouched, frozen, watching the bright keys flash and strike with nobody touching them.

  “Calling the past! Calling the past! Calling the past!…!”

  It was like water hitting an oiled window and running off, not leaving a mark. He heard a chime ringing softly and he saw the words. No wires—no operator—but it worked. Wireless. A radio-controlled typewriter.

  He picked it up like it was scalding him and set it on the table.

  “Calling the past! Calling the past! Press down on stud marked SENDING and type reply. Press down on stud marked Sending—”

  Steve felt something move. It was his hand, all by itself. Press the stud. He pressed.

  The machine stopped and waited.

  Silence. There was too much of it, too suddenly. Temple felt the blood rise in his cheeks, burn his ears. It was so very quiet that he finally had to make noise.

  So he typed:

  “Every good boy does fine. Every good boy does fine. Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country—”

  Slamming, the typewriter jumped as if hit by fists. The chime jangled. Control jerked away from Temple.

  “Hello!” the machine exclaimed. “You’re alive there, then. I was afraid I’d reach past the era of typewriters…. Hitler didn’t kill you, then—you’re fortunate!”

  “Hell, no,” Temple retorted, loud. “Hitler’s been dead more than twenty years!” Then, realizing that speaking was impractical, he
said on paper: “This is 1967. Hitler’s dead,” and then he stared at his fingers, kicking himself, wondering what had made him put it down.

  Typewriter keys gleamed, moving.

  “Who are you, quick! Where are you located?”

  Temple replied, “May I ask the same question? Is this a gag?” He snapped his fingers, inhaled hard. “Harry—is that you, Harry? It must be! Haven’t heard from you since ‘47—you and your practical jokes!”

  The RECEIVING stud clicked coldly. The SENDING stud spunged up.

  “Sorry. Not Harry. Name is Ellen Abbot. Female. 26 years old. Year 2442. Five feet ten inches tall. Blonde hair, blue eyes—semantician and dimentional research expert. Sorry. Not Harry.”

  Steve Temple tried to blink the words away. It didn’t work.

  The machine shuddered. Keys, carriage, platinum and scarlet keys dissolved as if showered in some instant-acid. It wasn’t there any more. It was gone. And a moment later it slipped back, shining and hard under his hands. It came back bursting out its message quick and dark:

  “I’ve got to get this over to you in a hurry, and yet to do it correctly it should take a long period of carefully worded propaganda. But there isn’t time. Idle talk in a dictatorship like Kraken’s is fatal. I’ll give you the simple, down to the bone facts. First, though, explain your background, the exact date and other associative details. I must know. If you can’t help me, I’ll withdraw the machine, refocus it in another era. Please reply—”

  Steve wiped sweat off his face. “Name, Steve Temple. Profession—writer. Age 29, feel like a hundred. Date: Monday evening, January 10th, in the year 1967. I must be crazy.”

  Crazy or not, the typewriter made words:

  “Good. I’ve focused on the hairline of the Crisis! There’s a lot to be done before January 14th, Friday of your year. My sand’s running out. Hold on. The Guard is coming, escorting Kraken. They’re taking me from this cell to Trial. I think they’ll give the verdict tonight. So—tomorrow night: same time, I’ll push contact with you again. I don’t dare withdraw the machine. Chances of refocusing it to you are bad—Standby—”