The Lost Bradbury (11 page)

The destroyer ran in the wave channels, in the free wind, under a darkening sky.

“Full speed ahead!”

The ocean slept quiet as the convoy moved on in the twilight. There was little movement in its deep green silence. Except for some things that may have been a swarm of silver fish gathered below, just under the waters where the convoy had passed; pale things stirring, flashing a flash of white, and swimming off silently, strangely, into the deep green soundlessness of the undersea valleys….

The ocean slept again.

 
DEFENSE MECH

This is another of Bradbury’s uncollected stories. It came out in the spring of 1946 in
Planet Stories
.

* * * *

Oh, my God, do you realize how far from Earth we are? Do you really
think
about it? It’s enough to scare the guts from a man. Hold me up.
Do
something. Give me sedatives or hold my hand or run call mama. A million cold miles up. See all the flickering stars? Look at my hands tremble. Feel my heart whirling like a hot pinwheel!

The captain comes toward me, a stunned expression on his small, tight face. He takes my arm, looking into my eyes. Hello, captain. I’m sick, if that’s what you want to know. I’ve a right to be scared—just look at all that space! Standing here a moment ago, I stared down at Earth so round and cloud-covered and asleep on a mat of stars, and my brain tore loose and screamed, man, man, how’d you get in a mess like this, in a rocket a million miles past the moon, shooting for Mars with a crew of fourteen others! I can hardly stand up, my knees, my hands, my heart, are shaking apart. Hold me up, sir.

What are hysterics like? The captain unprongs the inter-deck audio and speaks swiftly, scowling, into it. I hope he’s phoning the psychiatrist. I need something. Oh, dammit, dammit!

The psychiatrist descends the ladder in immaculate salt-white uniform and walks toward me in a dream. Hello, doctor. You’re the one for me. Please, sir, turn this damned rocket around and fly back to New York. I’ll go crazy with all this space and distance!

The psychiatrist and the captain’s voices murmur and blend, with here and there an emphasis, a toss of head, a gesture:

“Young Halloway here’s on a fear-jag, doctor. Can you help him?”

“I’ll try. Good man, Halloway is. Imagine you’ll need him and his muscles when we land.”

“With the crew as small as it is, every man’s worth his weight in uranium. He’s
got
to be cured.”

The psychiatrist shakes his head.

“Might have to squirt him full of drugs to keep him quiet the rest of the expedition.”

The captain explodes, saying that is impossible. Blood drums in my head. The doctor moves closer, smelling clean, sharp and white.

“Please, understand, captain, this man is definitely psychotic about going home. His talk is almost a reversion to childhood. I can’t refuse his demands, and his fear seems too deeply based for reasoning. However, I think I’ve an idea. Halloway?”

Yes, sir? Help me, doctor. I want to go home. I want to see popcorn exploding into a buttered avalanche inside a glass cube, I want to roller skate, I want to climb into the old cool wet ice-wagon and go
chikk-chikk-chikk
on the ice with a sharp pick, I want to take long sweating hikes in the country, see big brick buildings and bright-faced people, fight the old gang, anything but this—
awful!

The psychiatrist rubs his chin.

“All right, son. You can go back to Earth, now, tonight.”

Again the captain explodes.

“You can’t tell him
that.
We’re landing on Mars
today!”

The psychiatrist pats down the captain patiently.

“Please, captain. Well, Halloway, back to New York for you. How does it sound?”

I’m not so scared now. We’re going down on the moving ladder and here is the psychiatrist’s cubicle.

He’s pouring lights into my eyes. They revolve like stars on a disc. Lots of strange machines around, attachments to my head, my ears. Sleepy. Oh, so sleepy. Like under warm water. Being pushed around. Laved. Washed. Quiet. Oh, gosh. Sleepy.

“—listen to me, Halloway—”

Sleepy. Doctor’s talking. Very soft, like feathers. Soft, soft.

“—you’re going to land on earth. No matter what they tell you, you’re landing on Earth…no matter what happens you’ll be on Earth…everything you see and do will be like on Earth…remember that…remember that…you won’t be afraid because you’ll be on Earth…remember that…over and over…you’ll land on Earth in an hour…home…home again…no matter what anyone says….”

Oh, yes, sir, home again. Sleepy. Home again. Drifting, sleeping, oh thank you, sir, thank you from the bottom of my drowsy, sleepy soul. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Sleepy. Drifting.

* * * *

I’m awake!

Hey, everybody, come look! Here comes Earth! Right at us, like a green moss ball off a bat! Coming at us on a curve!

“Check stations! Mars landing!”

“Get into bulgers! Test atmosphere!”

Get into your
what
did he say?

“Your baseball uniform, Halloway. Your baseball uniform.”

Yes, sir. My baseball uniform. Where’d I put it? Over here. Head into, legs into, feet into it. There. Ha, this is great! Pitch her in here, old boy, old boy!
Smack!
Yow!

Yes, sir, it’s over in that metal locker. I’ll take it out. Head, arms, legs into it—I’m dressed. Baseball uniform. Ha! This is great! Pitch ‘er in here, ole boy, ole boy!
Smack!
Yow!

“Adjust bulger helmets, check oxygen.”

What?

“Put on your catcher’s mask, Halloway.”

Oh. The mask slides down over my face. Like that. The captain comes rushing up, eyes hot green and angry.

“Doctor, what’s this infernal nonsense?”

“You wanted Halloway able to do his work, didn’t you, captain?”

“Yes, but what in hell’ve you done to him?”

Strange. As they talk, I hear their words flow over my head like a wave dashed on a sea-stone, but the words drain off, leaving no imprint. As soon as some words invade my head, something eats and digests them and I think the words are something else entirely.

The psychiatrist nods at me.

“I couldn’t change his basic desire. Given time, yes, a period of months, I could have. But you need him
now.
So, against all the known ethics of my profession, which say one must never lie to a patient, I’ve followed along in his own thought channel. I didn’t dare frustrate him. He wanted to go home, so I
let
him. I’ve given him a fantasy. I’ve set up a protective defense mechanism in his mind that refuses to believe certain realities, that evaluates all things from its own desire for security and home. His mind will automatically block any thought or image that endangers that security.”

The captain stares wildly.

“Then, then Halloway’s insane!”

“Would you have him mad with fear, or able to work on Mars hindered by only a slight ‘tetched’ condition? Coddle him and he’ll do fine. Just remember, we’re landing on Earth,
not
Mars.”

“Earth, Mars, you’ll have
me
raving next!”

The doctor and the captain certainly talk weirdly. Who cares? Here comes Earth! Green, expanding like a moist cabbage underfoot!

“Mars landing! Air-lock opened! Use bulger oxygen.”

Here we go, gang! Last one out is a pink chimpanzee!

“Halloway, come back, you damn fool! You’ll kill yourself!”

Feel the good sweet Earth! Home again! Praise the Lord! Let’s dance, sing off-key, laugh! Ha! Oh, boy!

In the door of the house stands the captain, his face red and wrinkled, waving his fists.

“Halloway, come back! Look behind you, you fool!”

I whirl about and cry out, happily.

Shep! Shep, old dog! He comes running to meet me, long fur shining amber in the sunshine. Barking. Shep, I haven’t seen you in years. Good old pooch. Come ‘ere, Shep. Let me pet you.

The captain shrieks:

“Don’t pet it! It looks like a carnivorous Martian worm. Man, the jaws on that thing! Halloway, use your knife!”

Shep snarls and shows his teeth. Shep, what’s wrong? That’s no way to greet me. Come on, Shep. Hey! I pull back my fingers as his swift jaws snap. Shep circles me, swiftly. You haven’t rabies, have you, Shep? He darts in, snatches my ankle with strong, locking white teeth! Lord, Shep, you’re crazy! I can’t let this go on. And you used to be such a fine, beautiful dog. Remember all the hikes we took into the lazy corn country, by the red barns and deep wells? Shep clenches tight my ankle. I’ll give him one more chance. Shep,
let go!
Where did this long knife come from in my hand, like magic? Sorry to do this, Shep, but
—there!

Shep screams, thrashing, screams again. My arm pumps up and down, my gloves are freckled with blood-flakes.

Don’t scream, Shep. I
said
I was sorry, didn’t I?

“Get out there, you men, and bury that beast immediately.”

I glare at the captain. Don’t talk that way about Shep.

The captain stares at my ankle.

“Sorry, Halloway. I meant, bury that ‘dog,’ you men. Give him full honors. You were lucky, son, another second and those knife-teeth’d bored through your ankle-cuff metal.”

I don’t know what he means. I’m wearing sneakers, sir.

“Oh, yeah, so you are. Yeah. Well, I’m sorry, Halloway. I know how you must feel about—Shep. He was a fine dog.”

I think about it a moment and my
eyes fill up, wet.

END EXCERPT

* * * *

There’ll be a picnic and a hike; the captain says. Three hours now the boys have carried luggage from the metal house. The way they talk, this’ll be some picnic. Some seem afraid, but who worries about copperheads and water-moccasins and crawfish? Not me. No, sir. Not me.

Gus Bartz, sweating beside me on some apparatus, squints at me.

“What’s eatin’ you, Halloway?”

I smile. Me? Nothing. Why?

“You and that act with that Martian worm.”

What’re you talking about? What worm?

The captain interrupts, nervously.

“Bartz, lay off Halloway. The doctor’ll explain why. Ask him.”

Bartz goes away, scratching his head.

The captain pats my shoulder.

“You’re our strong-arm man, Halloway. You’ve got muscles from working on the rocket engines. So keep alert today, eh, on your hike to look over the territory? Keep your—b.b. gun—ready.”

Beavers, do you think, sir?

The captain swallows hard and blinks.

“Unh—oh, beavers, yeah, beavers. Sure. Beavers! Maybe. Mountain lions and Indians, too, I hear. Never can tell. Be careful.”

Mountain lions and Indians in New York in this day and age? Aw, sir.

“Let it go. Keep alert, anyhow. Smoke?”

I don’t smoke, sir. A strong mind in a healthy body, you know the old rule.

“The old rule. Oh,
yes.
The
old
rule. Only joking. I don’t want a smoke anyway. Like hell.”

What was that last, sir?

“Nothing, Halloway, carry on, carry on.”

I help the others work, now. Are we taking the yellow streetcar to the edge of town, Gus?

“We’re using propulsion belts, skimming low over the dead seas.”

How’s that again, Gus?

“I said, we’re takin’ the yellow streetcar to the end of the line, yeah.”

We’re ready. Everyone’s packed, spreading out. We’re going in groups of four. Down Main Street past the pie factory, over the bridge, through the tunnel, past the circus grounds and we’ll rendezvous, says the captain, at a place he points to on a queer, disjointed map.

Whoosh!
We’re off! I forgot to pay my fare.

“That’s okay, I paid it.”

Thanks, captain. We’re really traveling. The cypresses and the maples flash by.
Kaawhoom!
I wouldn’t admit this to anyone but you, sir, but momentarily, there, I didn’t see this street-car. Suddenly we moved in empty space, nothing supporting us, and I didn’t see any car. But
now
I see it, sir.

The captain gazes at me as at a nine-day miracle.

“You do, eh?”

Yes, sir. I clutch upward. Here’s the strap. I’m holding it.

“You look pretty funny sliding through the air with your hand up like that, Halloway.”

How’s that, sir?

“Ha, ha, ha!”

Why are the others laughing at me, sir?