The Lost Bradbury Read online

  How’s that, sir?

  “Ha, ha, ha!”

  Why are the others laughing at me, sir?

  “Nothing, son, nothing. Just happy, that’s all.”

  Ding Ding. Ding Ding. Canal Street and Washington. Ding Ding. Whoosh. This is real traveling. Funny, though, the captain and his men keep moving, changing seats, never stay seated. It’s a long street-car. I’m way in back now. They’re up front.

  By the large brown house on the next corner stands a popcorn wagon, yellow and red and blue. I can taste the popcorn in my mind. It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten some…if I ask the captain’s permission to stop and buy a bag, he’ll refuse. I’ll just sneak off the car at the next stop. I can get back on the next car and catch up with the gang later.

  * * * *

  How do you stop this car? My fingers fumble with my baseball outfit, doing something I don’t want to know about. The car is stopping! Why’s that. Popcorn is more important.

  I’m off the car, walking. Here’s the popcorn machine with a man behind it, fussing with little silver metal knobs.

  “—murr—lokk—loc—cor—iz—”

  Tony! Tony, bambino! What are you doing here?

  “Click.”

  It can’t be, but it is. Tony, who died ten long years ago, when I was a freckled kid! Alive and selling popcorn again. Oh, Tony, it’s good to see you. His black moustache’s so waxed, so shining, his dark hair like burnt oily shavings, his dark shining happy eyes, his smiling red cheeks! He shimmers in my eyes like in a cold rain. Tony! Let me shake your hand! Gimme a bag of popcorn, senor!

  “Click-click-click—sput-click—reeeeeeeeeeeeee—”

  The captain didn’t see you, Tony, you were hidden so well, only I saw you. Just a moment while I search for my nickel.

  “Reeeeeee.”

  Whew, I’m dizzy. It’s very hot. My heads spins like a leaf on a storm wind. Let me hold onto your wagon, Tony, quick, I’m shivering and I’ve got sharp needle head pains….

  “Reeeeeeee.”

  I’m running a temperature. I feel as if I have a torch hung flaming in my head.

  Hotter. Pardon me for criticizing you, Tony, but I think it’s your popper turned up too high. Your face looks afraid, contorted, and your hands move so rapidly, why? Can’t you shut it off? I’m hot. Everything melts. My knees sag.

  Warmer still. He’d better turn that thing off, I can’t take any more. I can’t find my nickel anyhow. Please, snap it off, Tony, I’m sick. My uniform glows orange. I’ll take fire!

  Here, I’ll turn it off for you, Tony.

  You hit me!

  Stop hitting me, stop clicking those knobs! It’s hot, I tell you. Stop, or I’ll—

  Tony. Where are you? Gone.

  Where did that purple flame shoot from? That loud blast, what was it? The flame seemed to stream from my hand, out of my scout flashlight. Purple flame—eating!

  I smell a sharp bitter odor.

  Like hamburger fried overlong.

  I feel better now. Cool as winter. But—

  Like a fly buzzing in my ears, a voice comes, faint, far off.

  “Halloway, damn it, Halloway, where are you?”

  Captain! It’s his voice, sizzling. I don’t see you, sir!

  “Halloway, we’re on the dead sea bottom near an ancient Martian city and—oh, never mind, dammit, if you hear me, press your boyscout badge and yell!”

  I press the badge intensely, sweating. Hey, captain!

  “Halloway! Glory. You’re not dead. Where are you?”

  I stopped for popcorn, sir. I can’t see you. How do I hear you?

  “It’s an echo. Let it go. If you’re okay, grab the next streetcar.”

  That’s very opportune. Because here comes a big red streetcar now, around the corner of the drug store.

  “What!”

  Yes, sir, and its chock full of people. I’ll climb aboard.

  “Wait a minute! Hold on! Murder! What kind of people, dammit?”

  It’s the West Side gang. Sure. The whole bunch of tough kids.

  “West side gang, hell, those are Martians, get the hell outa there! Transfer to another car—take the subway! Take the elevated!”

  Too late. The car’s stopped. I’ll have to get on. The conductor looks impatient.

  “Impatient,” he says. “You’ll be massacred!”

  Oh, oh. Everybody’s climbing from the streetcar, looking angry at me. Kelly and Grogan and Tompkins and the others. I guess there’ll be a fight.

  The captain’s voice stabs my ears, but I don’t see him anywhere:

  “Use your r-gun, your blaster, your blaster. Hell, use your slingshot, or throw spitballs, or whatever the devil you imagine you got holstered there, but use it! Come on, men, about face and back!”

  I’m outnumbered. I bet they’ll gang me and give me the bumps, the bumps, the bumps. I bet they’ll truss me to a maple tree, maple tree, maple tree and tickle me. I bet they’ll ink-tattoo their initials on my forehead. Mother won’t like this.

  The captain’s voice opens up louder, driving nearer:

  “And Poppa ain’t happy! Get outa there, Halloway!”

  They’re hitting me, sir! We’re battling!

  “Keep it up, Halloway!”

  I knocked one down, sir, with an uppercut. I’m knocking another down now. Here goes a third! Someone’s grabbed my ankle. I’ll kick him! There! I’m stumbling, falling! Lights in my eyes, purple ones, big purple lightning bolts sizzling the air!

  Three of them vanished, just like that!

  I think they fell down a manhole.

  I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt them bad.

  They stole my flashlight.

  “Get it back, Halloway! We’re coming. Get your flash and use it!” That’s silly.

  “Silly,” he says. “Silly. Silly.”

  * * * *

  I got my flashlight back, broken, no good. We’re wrestling. There are so many of them, I’m weak. They’re climbing all over me, hitting. It’s not fair, I’m falling down, kicking, screaming!

  “Up speed, men, full power!”

  They’re binding me up. I can’t move. They’re rushing me into the street-car now. Now I won’t be able to go on that hike. And I planned on it so hard, too.

  “Here we are, Halloway! Blast ‘em, men! Oh, my Lord, look at the horrible faces on those creatures! Guh!”

  Watch out, captain! They’ll get you, too, and the others! Ahh! Somebody struck me on the back of my head. Darkness. Dark. Dark.

  Rockabye baby on the tree-top…when the wind blows….

  “Okay, Halloway, any time. Just any old time you want to come to.”

  Dark. A voice talking. Dark as a whale’s insides. Ouch, my head. I’m flat on my back, I can feel rocks under me.

  “Good morning, dear Mr. Halloway.”

  That you, captain, over in that dark corner?

  “It ain’t the president of the United States!”

  Where is this cave?

  “Suppose you tell us, you got us into this mess with your eternally blasted popcorn! Why’d you get off the streetcar?”

  Did the West Side gang truss us up like this, captain?

  “West Side gang, goh! Those faces, those inhuman, weird, unsavory and horrible faces. All loose-fleshed and—gangrenous. Aliens, the whole rotting clutch of ‘em.”

  What a funny way to talk.

  “Listen, you parboiled idiot, in about an hour we’re going to be fried, gutted, iced, killed, slaughtered, murdered, we will be, ipso facto, dead. Your ‘friends’ are whipping up a little blood-letting jamboree. Can’t I shove it through your thick skull, we’re on Mars, about to be sliced and hammered by a lousy bunch of Martians!”r />
  “Captain, sir?”

  “Yes, Berman?”

  “The cave door is opening, sir. I think the Martians are ready to have at us again, sir. Some sort of test or other, no doubt.”

  “Let go of me, you one-eyed monster! I’m coming, don’t push!”

  We’re outside the cave. They’re cutting our bonds. See, captain, they aren’t hurting us, after all. Here’s the brick alley. There’s Mrs. Haight’s underwear waving on the clothes-line. See all the people from the beer hall—what’re they waiting for?

  “To see us die.”

  “Captain, what’s wrong with Halloway, he’s acting queer—”

  “At least he’s better off than us. He can’t see these creatures’ faces and bodies. It’s enough to turn a man’s stomach. This must be their amphitheatre. That looks like an obstacle course. I gather from their sign lingo that if we make it through the obstacles, we’re free. Footnote: nobody’s ever gotten through alive yet. Seems they want you to go first, Berman. Good luck, boy.”

  “So long, captain. So long, Gus. So long, Halloway.”

  Berman’s running down-alley with an easy, long-muscled stride. I hear him yelling high and clear, even though he’s getting far away.

  Here comes an automobile!

  Berman! Ahh! It hit him! He’s fallen!

  Berman, get up, get up!

  “Stay here, Halloway, it’s not your turn yet.”

  My turn? What do you mean? Someone’s gotta help Berman.

  “Halloway, come back! Oh, man, I don’t want to see this!”

  * * * *

  Lift up my legs, put them down, breathe out, breathe in, swing arms, swing legs, chew my tongue, blink my eyes, Berman, here I come, gee, things are crazy-funny, here comes an ice-wagon trundling along, it’s coming right at me! I can’t see to get around it, it’s coming so fast, I’ll jump inside it, jump, jump, cool, ice, ice-pick, chikk-chikk-chikk, I hear the captain screaming off a million hot miles gone, chikk-chikk-chikk around the ice perimeter, the ice wagon is thundering, rioting, jouncing, shaking, rolling on big rusty iron wheels, smelling of sour ammonia, bouncing on a corduroy dirt and brick alley-road, the rear end of it seems to be snapping shut with many ice-prongs, I feel intense pain in my left leg, chikk-chikk-chikk-chikk! piece of ice, cold square, cold cube, a shuddering and convulsing, a temblor, the wagon wheels stop rolling, I jump down and run away from the wrecked wagon, did the wagon roll over Berman, I hope not, a fence here, I’ll jump over it, another popcorn machine, very warm, very hot, all flame and red fire and burning metal knobs….

  Oops, I didn’t mean to strike the popcorn man down, hello, Berman, what’re you doing in my arms, how’d you get here, did I pick you up, and why? an obstacle race at the high-school? you’re heavy, I’m tired, dogs nipping at my heels, how far am I supposed to carry you? I hear the captain screaming me on, for why, for why? here comes the big bad truant officer with a club in his hand to take me back to school, he looks mean and broad….

  I kicked the truant officer’s shins and kicked him in the face…. Mama won’t like that…yes, mommy…no mommy…that’s unfair…that’s not ethical fighting…something went squish…hmm…let’s forget about it, shall we?

  Breathing hard. Here comes the gang after me, all the rough, bristly Irishmen and scarred Norwegians and stubborn Italians…hit, kick, wrestle…here comes a swift car, fast, fast! I hope I can duck, with you, Berman…here comes another car from the opposite way!…if I work things right…uh…stop screaming, Berman!

  The cars crashed into each other.

  The cars still roll, tumbling, like two animals tearing at each other’s throats.

  Not far to go now, Berman, to the end of the alley. Just ahead. I’ll sleep for forty years when this is over…where’d I get this flashlight in my hand? from one of those guys I knocked down? from the popcorn man? I’ll poke it in front of me…people run away…maybe they don’t like its light in their eyes…. The end of the alley! There’s the green valley and my house, and there’s Mom and Pop waiting! Hey, let’s sing, let’s dance, we’re going home!

  “Halloway, you so-and-so, you did it!”

  Dark. Sleep. Wake up slow. Listen.

  “—and Halloway ran down that amphitheatre nonchalant as a high-school kid jumping hurdles. A big saffron Martian beast with a mouth so damn big it looked like the rear end of a delivery truck, lunged forward square at Halloway—”

  “What’d Halloway do?”

  “Halloway jumped right inside the monster’s mouth—right inside!”

  “What happened then?”

  “The animal looked dumbfounded. It tried to spit out. Then, to top it all, what did Halloway do, I ask you, I ask you, what did he do? He drew forth his boy-scout blade and went chikk-chikk-chikk all around the bloody interior, pretending like he’s holed up in an ice-wagon, chipping himself off pieces of ice.”

  “No?”

  “On my honor! The monster, after taking a bit of this chikk-chikk-chikk business, leaped around, cavorting, floundering, rocking, tossing, and then, with a spout of blood, out popped Halloway, grinning like a kid, and on he ran, dodging spears and pretending they were pebbles, leaping a line of crouched warriors and saying they’re a picket fence. Then he lifted Berman and trotted with him until he met a three hundred pound Martian wrestler. Halloway supposed that it was the truant officer and promptly kicked him in the face. Then he knocked down another guy working furiously at the buttons of a paralysis machine which looked, to Halloway, like a popcorn wagon! After which two gigantic black Martian leopards attacked, resembling to him nothing more than two very bad drivers in dark automobiles. Halloway sidestepped. The two ‘cars’ crashed and tore each other apart, fighting. Halloway pumped on, shooting people with his ‘flashlight’ which he retrieved from the ‘popcorn’ man. Pointing the flash at people, he was amazed when they vanished and—oh, oh, Halloway’s waking up, I saw his eyelids flicker. Quiet, everyone. Halloway, you awake?”

  Yeah. I been listening to you talk for five minutes. I still don’t understand. Nothing happened at all. How long I been asleep?

  “Two days. Nothing happened, eh? Nothing, except you got the Martians kowtowing, that’s all, brother. Your spectacular performance impressed people. The enemy suddenly decided that if one earthman could do what you did, what would happen if a million more came?”

  Everybody keeps on with this joking, this lying about Mars. Stop it. Where am I?

  “Aboard the rocket, about to take off.”

  Leave Earth? No, no, I don’t want to leave Earth, good green Earth! Let go! I’m afraid! Let go of me! Stop the ship!

  “Halloway, this is Mars—we’re going back to Earth.”

  Liars, all of you! I don’t want to go to Mars, I want to stay here, on Earth!

  “Holy cow, here we go again. Hold him down, Gus. Hey, doctor, on the double! Come help Halloway change his mind back, willya!”

  Liars! You can’t do this! Liars! Liars!

  FINAL VICTIM

  (with Henry Hasse)

  Bradbury wrote “Final Victim” with fellow science fiction writer Henry Hasse, and it was published in the February 1946 issue of Amazing Stories. This was not their first writing collaboration. In 1941, Bradbury and Hasse’s Pendulum came out in a pulp magazine, Bradbury’s first appearance in the genre.

  * * * *

  The space-suited figure scrambled frantically over the edge of the ragged asteroid cliff, and lay panting from the exertion of the long climb upward. The pale face beneath the helmet was drawn in a tight grimace as it stared at the tiny Patrol ship on the plain below. No access to it now! He was trapped.

  The young man rose to his feet, stared down the steep ravine he had just traversed. He saw the plodding figure of the Patrolman coming up toward him. There was a frightening relentlessness about that
figure. He caught a dull glint of metal and knew the Patrolman had drawn his atomblast.

  “If only I hadn’t lost my gun, down there!” And then he laughed bitterly, for he knew he never would have used it. He stepped out in plain sight, threw his hands up in the universal gesture of surrender. His mind was awry with bitter thoughts. He had never killed anyone in all his life! But the Patrol thought he had, and that’s what counted now. He was glad it was all over. He would surrender, go back and face trial though the evidence was all against him.

  Now the Patrolman’s bulging, space-suited figure loomed up before him just ten yards away. He raised his hands still higher to make sure the other saw them.

  The Patrolman saw them all right. His lips parted in a wide grin beneath his Crystyte plate. He lifted his big hand, full of dull metal, and took careful aim at the young man limned against the cobalt heaven.

  There was something strange, and wrong, in the big Patrolman’s grin. The youth waved frantically with his hands and screamed terrified words that only echoed inside his helmet until his eardrums rang. This was crazy! This couldn’t happen! It was never in the Patrol’s code to kill men in cold blood….

  His thoughts abruptly ceased. His helmet plate shattered inward and his face was a mask of red. He screamed, but it ended in a gurgling moan, as he tried with futile fingers to tear out the slug that was chewing at his brain. He sank to his knees, toppled over the cliff and did a crazy jerking dance as his gravity plates pulled him to the rock eighty feet below.

  Jim Skeel, Patrolman, still grinned.

  “Number fourteen,” said he, and holstered his gun.

  Jim Skeel stalked triumphantly down to the base of the cliff. He exulted with all six-feet-four of his big sun-parched body. He felt the palms of his hands a little sweaty as he clenched and unclenched them, and a curious tremor came over him as he viewed the body lying there. The familiar pounding of blood was in his temples again, a hot, fierce pounding.

  For a long moment he closed his eyes tight and pressed hard fists against his temples and stood there trembling. But the fierce remembrance would not go away, as he knew it would not. Again the scene was with him that had haunted him through the years. Once again the flash of electro-guns tore through his tortured brain, and he saw defenseless men all about him dying and he heard their screams as they died….