Bradbury Stories (126 page)

What was happening on Earth now? He had seen no visible sign of change in Earth's aspect through his thirty-inch telescope. Well, he thought, I'm good for another twenty years if I'm careful. Someone might come. Either across the dead seas or out of space in a rocket on a little thread of red flame.

He called into the hut, “I'm going to take a walk.”

“All right,” his wife said.

He moved quietly down through a series of ruins. “Made in New York,” he read from a piece of metal as he passed. “And all these things from Earth will be gone long before the old Martian towns.” He looked toward the fifty-centuries-old village that lay among the blue mountains.

He came to a solitary Martian graveyard, a series of small hexagonal stones on a hill swept by the lonely wind.

He stood looking down at four graves with crude wooden crosses on them, and names. Tears did not come to his eyes. They had dried long ago.

“Do you forgive me for what I've done?” he asked of the crosses. “I was very much alone. You do understand, don't you?”

He returned to the stone hut and once more, just before going in, shaded his eyes, searching the black sky.

“You keep waiting and waiting and looking,” he said, “and one night, perhaps—”

There was a tiny red flame on the sky.

He stepped away from the light of the hut.

“—and you look again,” he whispered.

The tiny red flame was still there.

“It wasn't there last night,” he whispered.

He stumbled and fell, picked himself up, ran behind the hut, swiveled the telescope, and pointed it at the sky.

A minute later, after a long, wild staring, he appeared in the low door of the hut. The wife and the two daughters and the son turned their heads to him. Finally he was able to speak.

“I have good news,” he said. “I have looked at the sky. A rocket is coming to take us all home. It will be here in the early morning.”

He put his hands down and put his head into his hands and began to cry gently.

He burned what was left of New New York that morning at three.

He took a torch and moved into the plastic city and with the flame touched the walls here or there. The city bloomed up in great tosses of heat and light. It was a square mile of illumination, big enough to be seen out in space. It would beckon the rocket down to Mr. Hathaway and his family.

His heartbeating rapidly with pain, he returned to the hut. “See?” He held up a dusty bottle into the light. “Wine I saved, just for tonight. I knew that someday someone would find us! We'll have a drink to celebrate!”

He poured five glasses full.

“It's been a long time,” he said, gravely looking into his drink. “Remember the day the war broke? Twenty years and seven months ago. And all the rockets were called home from Mars. And you and I and the children were out in the mountains, doing archaeological work, research on the ancient surgical methods of the Martians. We ran our horses, almost killing them, remember? But we got here to the city a week late. Everyone was gone. America had been destroyed; every rocket had left without waiting for stragglers, remember, remember? And it turned out we were the only ones left? Lord, Lord, how the years pass. I couldn't have stood it without you here, all of you. I'd have killed myself without you. But with you, it was worth waiting. Here's to us, then.” He lifted his glass. “And to our long wait together.” He drank.

The wife and the two daughters and the son raised their glasses to their lips.

The wine ran down over the chins of all four of them.

By morning the city was blowing in great black soft flakes across the sea bottom. The fire was exhausted, but it had served its purpose; the red spot on the sky grew larger.

From the stone hut came the rich brown smell of baked gingerbread. His wife stood over the table, setting down the hot pans of new bread as Hathaway entered. The two daughters were gently sweeping the bare stone floor with stiff brooms, and the son was polishing the silverware.

“We'll have a huge breakfast for them,” laughed Hathaway. “Put on your best clothes!”

He hurried across his land to the vast metal storage shed. Inside was the cold-storage unit and power plant he had repaired and restored with his efficient, small, nervous fingers over the years, just as he had repaired clocks, telephones, and spool recorders in his spare time. The shed was full of things he had built, some senseless mechanisms the functions of which were a mystery even to himself now as he looked upon them.

From the deep freeze he fetched rimed cartons of beans and strawberries, twenty years old. Lazarus come forth, he thought, and pulled out a cool chicken.

The air was full of cooking odors when the rocket landed.

Like a boy, Hathaway raced down the hill. He stopped once because of a sudden sick pain in his chest. He sat on a rock to regain his breath, then ran all the rest of the way.

He stood in the hot atmosphere generated by the fiery rocket. A port opened. A man looked down.

Hathaway shielded his eyes and at last said, “Captain Wilder!”

“Who is it?” asked Captain Wilder, and jumped down and stood there looking at the old man. He put his hand out. “Good lord, it's Hathaway!”

“That's right.” They looked into each other's faces.

“Hathaway, from my old crew, from the Fourth Expedition.”

“It's been a long time, Captain.”

“Too long. It's good to see you.”

“I'm old,” said Hathaway simply.

“I'm not young myself anymore. I've been out to Jupiter and Saturn and Neptune for twenty years.”

“I heard they had kicked you upstairs so you wouldn't interfere with colonial policy here on Mars.” The old man looked around. “You've been gone so long you don't know what's happened—”

Wilder said, “I can guess. We've circled Mars twice. Found only one other man, name of Walter Gripp, about ten thousand miles from here. We offered to take him with us, but he said no. The last we saw of him he was sitting in the middle of the highway in a rocking chair, smoking a pipe, waving to us. Mars is pretty well dead, not even a Martian alive. What about Earth?”

“You know as much as I do. Once in a while I get the Earth radio, very faintly. But it's always in some other language. I'm sorry to say I only know Latin. A few words come through. I take it most of Earth's a shambles, but the war goes on. Are you going back, sir?”

“Yes. We're curious, of course. We had no radio contact so far out in space. We'll want to see Earth, no matter what.”

“You'll take us with you?”

The captain started. “Of course, your wife, I remember her. Twenty-five years ago, wasn't it? When they opened First Town and you quit the service and brought her up here. And there were children—”

“My son and two daughters.”

“Yes, I remember. They're here?”

“Up at our hut. There's a fine breakfast waiting all of you up the hill. Will you come?”

“We would be honored, Mr. Hathaway.” Captain Wilder called to the rocket, “Abandon ship!”

They walked up the hill, Hathaway and Captain Wilder, the twenty crew members following, taking deep breaths of the thin, cool morning air. The sun rose and it was a good day.

“Do you remember Spender, Captain?”

“I've never forgotten him.”

“About once a year I walk up past his tomb. It looks like he got his way at last. He didn't want us to come here, and I suppose he's happy now that we've all gone away.”

“What about—what was his name?—Parkhill, Sam Parkhill?”

“He opened a hot-dog stand.”

“It sounds just
like
him.”

“And went back to Earth the next week for the war.” Hathaway put his hand to his chest and sat down abruptly upon a boulder. “I'm sorry. The excitement. Seeing you again after all these years. Have to rest.” He felt his heart pound. He counted the beats. It was very bad.

“We've a doctor,” said Wilder. “Excuse me, Hathaway, I know you are one, but we'd better check you with our own—” The doctor was summoned.

“I'll be all right,” insisted Hathaway. “The waiting, the excitement.” He could hardly breathe. His lips were blue. “You know,” he said as the doctor placed a stethoscope to him, “it's as if I kept alive all these years just for this day, and now you're here to take me back to Earth, I'm satisfied and I can just lie down and quit.”

“Here.” The doctor handed him a yellow pellet. “We'd better let you rest.”

“Nonsense. Just let me sit a moment. It's good to see all of you. Good to hear new voices again.”

“Is the pellet working?”

“Fine. Here we go!”

They walked on up the hill.

“Alice, come see who's here!”

Hathaway frowned and bent into the hut. “Alice, did you hear?”

His wife appeared. A moment later the two daughters, tall and gracious, came out, followed by an even taller son.

“Alice, you remember Captain Wilder?”

She hesitated and looked at Hathaway as if for instructions and then smiled. “Of course, Captain Wilder!”

“I remember, we had dinner together the night before I took off for Jupiter, Mrs. Hathaway.”

She shook his hand vigorously. “My daughters, Marguerite and Susan. My son, John. You remember the captain, surely?”

Hands were shaken amid laughter and much talk.

Captain Wilder sniffed the air. “Is that gingerbread?”

“Will you have some?”

Everyone moved. Folding tables were hurried out while hot foods were rushed forth and plates and fine damask napkins and good silverware were laid. Captain Wilder stood looking first at Mrs. Hathaway and then at her son and her two tall, quiet-moving daughters. He looked into their faces as they darted past and he followed every move of their youthful hands and every expression of their wrinkleless faces. He sat upon a chair the son brought. “How old are you, John?”

The son replied, “Twenty-three.”

Wilder shifted his silverware clumsily. His face was suddenly pale. The man next to him whispered, “Captain Wilder, that can't be right.”

The son moved away to bring more chairs.

“What's that, Williamson?”

“I'm forty-three myself, Captain. I was in school the same time as young John Hathaway there, twenty years ago. He says he's only twenty-three now; he only
looks
twenty-three. But that's wrong. He should be forty-two, at least. What's it mean, sir?”

“I don't know.”

“You look kind of sick, sir.”

“I don't feel well. The daughters, too, I saw them twenty years or so ago; they haven't changed, not a wrinkle. Will you do me a favor? I want you to run an errand, Williamson. I'll tell you where to go and what to check. Late in the breakfast, slip away. It should take you only ten minutes. The place isn't far from here. I saw it from the rocket as we landed.”

“Here! What are you talking about so seriously?” Mrs. Hathaway ladled quick spoons of soup into their bowls. “Smile now; we're all together, the trip's over, and it's like home!”

“Yes.” Captain Wilder laughed. “You certainly look very well and young, Mrs. Hathaway!”

“Isn't that like a man!”

He watched her drift away, drift with her pink face warm, smooth as an apple, unwrinkled and colorful. She chimed her laugh at every joke, she tossed salads neatly, never once pausing for breath. And the bony son and curved daughters were brilliantly witty, like their father, telling of the long years and their secret life, while their father nodded proudly to each.

Williamson slipped off down the hill.

“Where's
he
going?” asked Hathaway.

“Checking the rocket,” said Wilder. “But, as I was saying, Hathaway, there's nothing on Jupiter, nothing at all for men. That includes Saturn and Pluto.” Wilder talked mechanically, not hearing his words, thinking only of Williamson running down the hill and climbing back to tell what he had found.

“Thanks.” Marguerite Hathaway was filling his water glass. Impulsively he touched her arm. She did not even mind. Her flesh was warm and soft.

Hathaway, across the table, paused several times, touched his chest with his fingers, painfully, then went on listening to the murmuring talk and sudden loud chattering, glancing now and again with concern at Wilder, who did not seem to like chewing his gingerbread.

Williamson returned. He sat picking at his food until the captain whispered aside to him, “Well?”

“I found it, sir.”

“And?”

Williamson's cheeks were white. He kept his eyes on the laughing people. The daughters were smiling gravely and the son was telling a joke. Williamson said, “I went into the graveyard.”

“The four crosses were there?”

“The four crosses were there, sir. The names were still on them. I wrote them down to be sure.” He read from a white paper: “Alice, Marguerite, Susan, and John Hathaway. Died of unknown virus. July 2007.”

“Thank you, Williamson.” Wilder closed his eyes.

“Nineteen years ago, sir.” Williamson's hand trembled.

“Yes.”

“Then who are
these
!”

“I don't know.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don't know that either.”

“Will we tell the other men?”

“Later. Go on with your food as if nothing happened.”

“I'm not very hungry now, sir.”

The meal ended with wine brought from the rocket. Hathaway arose. “A toast to all of you; it's good to be with friends again. And to my wife and children, without whom I couldn't have survived alone. It is only through their kindness in caring for me that I've lived on, waiting for your arrival.” He moved his wineglass toward his family, who looked back self-consciously, lowering their eyes at last as everyone drank.