Selected Short Stories by Ray Bradbury: Fountainhead School, Surat GR 12, Batch of 2024, Reader IV
Uploaded by
Yesha Shah CherubsSelected Short Stories by Ray Bradbury: Fountainhead School, Surat GR 12, Batch of 2024, Reader IV
Uploaded by
Yesha Shah CherubsFountainheadSchool,Surat Gr12,Batchof2024,ReaderIV
SelectedShortStories
byRayBradbury
Marionettes,Inc._______________________________________________2
TheMurderer________________________________________________ 17
TheVeldt____________________________________________________ 31
TheLastNightoftheWorld_____________________________________58
Reproducedunder“fairuse”guidelinesforeducation.
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury FromTheIllustratedMan,1951
Notes:
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ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury FromTheGoldenApplesoftheSun,1953
Marionettes,Inc.
They walked slowly down the street at about ten in the evening,
talkingcalmly.Theywerebothaboutthirty-five,botheminentlysober.
“Butwhysoearly?”saidSmith.
“Because,”saidBraling.
“Yourfirstnightoutinyearsandyougohomeatteno’clock.”
“Nerves,Isuppose.”
“What I wonder is how youevermanagedit.I’vebeentryingtoget
yououtfortenyearsforaquietdrink.Andnow,ontheonenight,youinsist
onturninginearly.”
“Mustn’tcrowdmyluck,”saidBraling.
“Whatdidyoudo,putsleepingpowderinyourwife’scoffee?”
“No,thatwouldbeunethical.You’llseesoonenough.”
They turned a corner. “Honestly, Braling, I hate to saythis,butyou
havebeenpatientwithher.Youmaynotadmitittome,butmarriagehasbeen
awfulforyou,hasn’tit?”
“Iwouldn’tsaythat.”
“It’s got around, anyway, here and there, how she got you tomarry
her.Thattimebackin1979whenyouweregoingtoRio–”
Reproducedunder“fairuse”guidelinesforeducation.
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury Marionettes,Inc.
“DearRio.Ineverdidseeitafterallmyplans.”
“Andhowshetoreherclothesandrumpledherhairandthreatenedto
callthepoliceunlessyoumarriedher.”
“Shealwayswasnervous,Smith,understand.”
“It was more than unfair.Youdidn’tloveher.Youtoldherasmuch,
didn’tyou?”
“IrecallthatIwasquitefirmonthesubject.”
“Butyoumarriedheranyhow.”
“I had my business to think of, as well as my mother and father.A
thinglikethatwouldhavekilledthem.”
“Andit’sbeentenyears.”
“Yes,”saidBraling,hisgrayeyessteady.“ButIthinkperhapsitmight
changenow.IthinkwhatI’vewaitedforhascomeabout.Lookhere.”
Hedrewforthalongblueticket.
“Why,it’saticketforRioontheThursdayrocket!”
“Yes,I’mfinallygoingtomakeit.”
“Buthowwonderful!Youdodeserveit!Butwon’tsheobject?Cause
trouble?”
Bralingsmilednervously.“Shewon’tknowI’mgone.I’llbebackina
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monthandnoonethewiser,exceptyou.
Smithsighed.“IwishIweregoingwithyou.”
“PoorSmith,yourmarriagehasn’texactlybeenroses,hasit?”
“Not exactly, married toawomanwhooverdoesit.Imean,afterall,
whenyou’vebeenmarriedtenyears,youdon’texpectawomantositonyour
lapfortwohourseveryevening,callyouatworktwelvetimesadayandtalk
baby talk. And it seems to me that in the last month she’s gotten worse. I
wonderifperhapssheisn’tjustalittlesimple-minded?”
“Ah, Smith, always the conservative. Well, here’s my house. Now,
wouldyouliketoknowmysecret?HowImadeitoutthisevening?”
“Willyoureallytell?”
“Lookup,there!”saidBraling.
Theybothstaredupthroughthedarkair.
Inthewindowabovethem,onthesecondfloor,ashadewasraised.A
manaboutthirty-fiveyearsold,withatouchofgrayateithertemple,sadgray
eyes,andasmallthinmustachelookeddownatthem.
“Why,that’syou!”criedSmith.
“Sh-h-h,notsoloud!”Bralingwavedupward.Themaninthewindow
gesturedsignificantlyandvanished.
“Imustbeinsane,”saidSmith.
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“Holdonamoment.”
Theywaited.
The streetdooroftheapartmentopenedandthetallsparegentleman
withthemustacheandthegrievedeyescameouttomeetthem.
“Hello,Braling,”hesaid.
“Hello,Braling,”saidBraling.
Theywereidentical.
Smithstared.“Isthisyourtwinbrother?Ineverknew–”
“No, no,” said Braling quietly. “Bend close. Put your eartoBraling
Two’schest.”
Smithhesitatedandthenleanedforwardtoplacehisheadagainstthe
uncomplainingribs.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.
“Ohno!Itcan’tbe!”
“Itis.”
“Letmelistenagain.”
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.
Smith staggered back and fluttered hiseyelids,appalled.Hereached
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ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury Marionettes,Inc.
outandtouchedthewarmhandsandthecheeksofthething.
“Where’dyougethim?”
“Isn’theexcellentlyfashioned?”
“Incredible.Where?”
“Givethemanyourcard,BralingTwo.”
BralingTwodidamagictrickandproducedawhitecard:
MARIONETTES,INC.
Duplicate self or friends; new humanoid plastic 1990 models, guaranteed
againstallphysicalwear.From$7,600toour$15,000deluxemodel.
“No,”saidSmith.
“Yes,”saidBraling.
“Naturally,”saidBralingTwo.
“Howlonghasthisgoneon?”
“I’ve had himforamonth.Ikeephiminthecellarinatoolbox.My
wife never goes downstairs, and I have the only lock and key to that box.
Tonight IsaidIwishedtotakeawalktobuyacigar.Iwentdowncellarand
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took Braling Two out of his box and sent him back up to sit with my wife
whileIcameonouttoseeyou,Smith.”
“Wonderful!Heevensmellslikeyou:BondStreetandMelachrinos!”
“Itmaybesplittinghairs,butIthinkithighlyethical.Afterall,what
my wife wantsmostofallisme.Thismarionetteismetothehairiestdetail.
I’vebeenhomeallevening.Ishallbehomewithherforthenextmonth.Inthe
meantimeanothergentlemanwillbeinRioaftertenyearsofwaiting.WhenI
returnfromRio,BralingTwoherewillgobackinhisbox.”
Smith thought that over a minute or two. “Will he walk around
withoutsustenanceforamonth?”hefinallyasked.
“For six months if necessary. And he’s built to do everything—eat,
sleep,perspire—everything,naturalasnaturalis.You’lltakegoodcareofmy
wife,won’tyou,BralingTwo?”
“Yourwifeisrathernice,”saidBralingTwo.“I’vegrownratherfond
ofher.”
Smith was beginning to tremble. “How long has Marionettes, Inc.,
beeninbusiness?”
“Secretly,fortwoyears.”
“Could I—I mean, is there a possibility—” Smith took his friend’s
elbowearnestly.“CanyoutellmewhereIcangetone,arobot,amarionette,
formyself?Youwillgivemetheaddress,won’tyou?”
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“Hereyouare.”
Smith took the card and turneditroundandround.“Thankyou,”he
said.“Youdon’tknowwhatthismeans.Justalittlerespite.Anightorso,once
amontheven.Mywifelovesmesomuchshecan’tbeartohavemegonean
hour.Iloveherdearly,youknow,butremembertheoldpoem:‘Lovewillfly
ifheldtoolightly,lovewilldieifheldtootightly.’Ijustwanthertorelaxher
gripalittlebit.”
“You’re lucky,atleast,thatyourwifelovesyou.Hate’smyproblem.
Notsoeasy.”
“Oh, Nettie loves me madly. Itwillbemytasktomakeherloveme
comfortably.”
“Good luck to you, Smith. Do drop aroundwhileI’minRio.Itwill
seem strange, if you suddenly stop calling by, to my wife. You’re to treat
BralingTwo,here,justlikeme.”
“Right!Good-by.Andthankyou.”
Smith went smilingdownthestreet.BralingandBralingTwoturned
andwalkedintotheapartmenthall.
OnthecrosstownbusSmithwhistledsoftly,turningthewhitecardin
hisfingers:
Clients must be pledged to secrecy, for while an act is pending in
CongresstolegalizeMarionettes,Inc.,itisstillafelony,ifcaught,touseone.
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ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury Marionettes,Inc.
“Well,”saidSmith.
Clientsmusthaveamoldmadeoftheirbodyandacolorindexcheck
of their eyes,lips,hair,skin,etc.Clientsmustexpecttowaitfortwomonths
untiltheirmodelisfinished.
Notsolong,thoughtSmith.Twomonthsfromnowmyribswillhave
achancetomendfromthecrushingthey’vetaken.Twomonthsfromnowmy
hand will heal from being so constantly held. Two months from now my
bruised underlip will begin to reshape itself. I don’t mean to sound
ungrateful...Heflippedthecardover.
Marionettes, Inc., is two years old and has a finerecordofsatisfied
customers behind it. Our mottois“NoStringsAttached.”Address:43South
WesleyDrive.
The bus pulled to his stop; he alighted, and while humming up the
stairshethought,NettieandIhavefifteenthousandinourjointbankaccount.
I’ll just slip eight thousand out as a business venture, you might say. The
marionette will probably pay back my money, with interest, in many ways.
Nettie needn’t know. He unlocked the door and in a minute was in the
bedroom.TherelayNettie,pale,huge,andpiouslyasleep.
“Dear Nettie.” He was almost overwhelmed with remorse at her
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ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury Marionettes,Inc.
innocent face there in the semidarkness. “If you were awake you would
smother me with kisses and coo in my ear. Really, youmakemefeellikea
criminal.Youhavebeensuchagood,lovingwife.Sometimesitisimpossible
for me to believe you married me instead of that Bud Chapman you once
liked.Itseemsthatinthelastmonthyouhavelovedmemorewildlythanever
before.”
Tears came to his eyes. Suddenly he wished to kiss her,confesshis
love, tearupthecard,forgetthewholebusiness.Butashemovedtodothis,
his hand ached and his ribs cracked andgroaned.Hestopped,withapained
lookinhiseyes,andturnedaway.Hemovedoutintothehallandthroughthe
darkrooms.3Humming,heopenedthekidneydeskinthelibraryandfilched
thebankbook.“Justtakeeightthousanddollarsisall,”hesaid.“Nomorethan
that.”Hestopped.“Waitaminute.”
Herecheckedthebankbookfrantically.“Holdonhere!”hecried.“Ten
thousand dollars ismissing!”Heleapedup.“There’sonlyfivethousandleft!
What’sshedone?What’sNettiedonewithit?Morehats,moreclothes,more
perfume!Or,wait–Iknow!SheboughtthatlittlehouseontheHudsonshe’s
beentalkingaboutformonths,withoutsomuchasabyyourleave!”
He stormed into thebedroom,righteousandindignant.Whatdidshe
mean, taking their money like this? He bent over her. “Nettie!” he shouted.
“Nettie,wakeup!”
Shedidnotstir.“What’veyoudonewithmymoney!”hebellowed.
Shestirredfitfully.Thelightfromthestreetflushedoverherbeautiful
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ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury Marionettes,Inc.
cheeks.
There was something about her. His heart throbbed violently. His
tonguedried.Heshivered.Hiskneessuddenlyturnedtowater.Hecollapsed.
“Nettie,Nettie!”hecried.“What’veyoudonewithmymoney!”
And then, the horrid thought. And then the terror andtheloneliness
engulfedhim.Andthenthefeveranddisillusionment.For,withoutdesiringto
doso,hebentforwardandyetforwardagainuntilhisfeveredearwasresting
firmlyandirrevocablyuponherroundpinkbosom.“Nettie!”hecried.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.
As Smith walked away down the avenue in the night, Braling and
Braling Two turned inatthedoortotheapartment.“I’mgladhe’llbehappy
too,”saidBraling.
“Yes,”saidBralingTwoabstractedly.
“Well, it’s the cellar box for you, B-Two.” Braling guided theother
creature’selbowdownthestairstothecellar.
“That’s what I want to talktoyouabout,”saidBralingTwo,asthey
reached the concrete floor and walkedacrossit.“Thecellar.Idon’tlikeit.I
don’tlikethattoolbox.”
“I’lltryandfixupsomethingmorecomfortable.”
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ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury Marionettes,Inc.
“Marionettes are made to move, not liestill.Howwouldyouliketo
lieinaboxmostofthetime?”
“Well–”
“Youwouldn’tlikeitatall.Ikeeprunning.There’snowaytoshutme
off.I’mperfectlyaliveandIhavefeelings.”
“It’llonlybeafewdaysnow.I’llbeofftoRioandyouwon’thaveto
stayinthebox.Youcanliveupstairs.”
Braling Two gestured irritably. “And when you come back from
havingagoodtime,backintheboxIgo.”
Bralingsaid,“Theydidn’ttellmeatthemarionetteshopthatI’dgeta
difficultspecimen.”
“There’s a lot they don’t know about us,” saidBralingTwo.“We’re
prettynew.Andwe’resensitive.Ihatetheideaofyougoingoffandlaughing
andlyinginthesuninRiowhilewe’restuckhereinthecold.”
“ButI’vewantedthattripallmylife,”saidBralingquietly.
Hesquintedhiseyesandcouldseetheseaandthemountainsandthe
yellow sand. The sound ofthewaveswasgoodtohisinwardmind.Thesun
wasfineonhisbaredshoulders.Thewinewasmostexcellent.
“I’llnevergettogotoRio,”saidtheotherman.“Haveyouthoughtof
that?”
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ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury Marionettes,Inc.
“No,I–”
“Andanotherthing.Yourwife.”
“Whatabouther?”askedBraling,beginningtoedgetowardthedoor.
“I’vegrownquitefondofher.”
“I’m glad you’reenjoyingyouremployment.”Bralinglickedhislips
nervously.
“I’mafraidyoudon’tunderstand.Ithink—I’minlovewithher.”
Bralingtookanotherstepandfroze.“You’rewhat?”
“AndI’vebeenthinking,”saidBralingTwo,“howniceitisinRioand
how I’ll never get there, and I’ve thought about your wife and—I think we
couldbeveryhappy.”
“T-that’s nice.” Braling strolled as casually as he could to thecellar
door. “You won’tmindwaitingamoment,willyou?Ihavetomakeaphone
call.”
“Towhom?”BralingTwofrowned.
“Nooneimportant.”
“ToMarionettes,Incorporated?Totellthemtocomegetme?”
“No,no—nothinglikethat!”Hetriedtorushoutthedoor.
Ametalfirmgripseizedhiswrists.“Don’trun!”
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ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury Marionettes,Inc.
“Takeyourhandsoff!”
“No.”
“Didmywifeputyouuptothis?”
“No.”
“Didsheguess?Didshetalktoyou?Doessheknow?Isthatit?”He
screamed.Ahandclappedoverhismouth.
“You’llneverknow,willyou?”BralingTwosmileddelicately.“You’ll
neverknow.”
Braling struggled. “She must have guessed; she must have affected
you!”
Braling Two said, “I’mgoingtoputyouinthebox,lockit,andlose
thekey.
ThenI’llbuyanotherRioticketforyourwife.”
“Now, now, wait a minute. Hold on. Don’t be rash. Let’s talk this
over!”
“Good-by,Braling.”
Bralingstiffened.“Whatdoyoumean,‘good-by’?”
TenminuteslaterMrs.Bralingawoke.Sheputherhandtohercheek.
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Someonehadjustkissedit.Sheshiveredandlookedup.“Why–youhaven’t
donethatinyears,”shemurmured.
“We’llseewhatwecandoaboutthat,”someonesaid.
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Notes:
16
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury FromTheGoldenApplesoftheSun,1953
TheMurderer
Music moved with him in thewhitehalls.Hepassedanofficedoor:
"The Merry Widow Waltz." Another door: Afternoon of a Faun. A Third:
"KissMeAgain."Heturnedintoacross-corridor:"TheSwordDance"buried
him in cymbals, drums, pots, pans, knives, forks, thunder, andtinlightning.
All washed away as he hurried through an anteroom where a secretary sat
nicelystunnedbyBeethoven'sFifth.Hemovedhimselfbeforehereyeslikea
hand;shedidn'tseehim.
Hiswristradiobuzzed.
"Yes?"
"ThisisLee,Dad.Don'tforgetaboutmyallowance."
"Yes,Son,yes.I'mbusy."
"Just didn't want you to forget, Dad," said the wrist radio.
Tchaikovsky'sRomeoandJulietswarmedaboutthevoiceandflushedintothe
longhalls.
The psychiatrist moved in the beehive of offices, in the
cross-pollination of themes, Stravinsky mating with Bach, Haydn
unsuccessfullyrepulsingRachmaninoff,SchubertslainbyDukeEllington.He
nodded to the humming secretaries and the whistling doctors fresh to their
morning work. At his office he checked afewpaperswithhisstenographer,
who sang under her breath, then phoned the police captain upstairs. A few
minuteslateraredlightblinked,avoicesaidfromtheceiling:
Reproducedunder“fairuse”guidelinesforeducation.
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheMurderer
"PrisonerdeliveredtoInterviewChamberNine."
Heunlockedthechamberdoor,steppedin,heardthedoorlockbehind
him.
"Goaway,"saidtheprisoner,smiling.
Thepsychiatristwasshockedbythatsmile.
Averysunny,pleasantwarmthing,athingthatshedbrightlightupon
theroom.Dawnamongthedarkhills.
High noon at midnight, that smile. The blue eyes sparkled serenely
abovethatdisplayofself-assureddentistry.
"I'mheretohelpyou,"saidthepsychiatrist,frowning.Somethingwas
wrong with the room. He had hesitated the moment he entered. Heglanced
around.Theprisonerlaughed."Ifyou'rewonderingwhyit'ssoquietinhere,I
justkickedtheradiotodeath."
Violent,thoughtthedoctor.
The prisoner read this thought, smiled, put out a gentle hand. "No,
onlytomachinesthatyak-yak-yak."
Bits of the wall radio's tubes and wires lay on the gray carpeting.
Ignoring these, feeling that smile uponhimlikeaheatlamp,thepsychiatrist
satacrossfromhispatientintheunusualsilencewhichwaslikethegathering
ofastorm.
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ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheMurderer
"You'reMr.AlbertBrock,whocallshimselfTheMurderer?"
Brock nodded pleasantly. "Before we start..." He moved quietlyand
quickly to detach the wrist radio from the doctor's arm. He tucked it in his
teeth like a walnut, gritted, heard it crack, handed it back to the appalled
psychiatristasifhehaddonethembothafavor."That'sbetter."
Thepsychiatriststaredattheruinedmachine."You'rerunningupquite
adamagebill."
"I don't care," smiled the patient."Astheoldsonggoes:'Don'tCare
WhatHappenstoMe!'"Hehummedit.
Thepsychiatristsaid:"Shallwestart?"
"Fine.Thefirstvictim,oroneofthefirst,wasmytelephone.Murder
mostfoul.IshoveditinthekitchenInsinkerator!Stoppedthedisposalunitin
mid-swallow. Poor thing strangled to death. After that I shot the television
set!"
Thepsychiatristsaid,"Mmm."
"Fired six shots right through the cathode.Madeabeautifultinkling
crash,likeadroppedchandelier."
"Niceimagery."
"Thanks, I always dreamt of being a writer." "Suppose you tell me
whenyoufirstbegantohatethetelephone."
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ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheMurderer
"It frightened me as a child. Uncle of mine called it the Ghost
Machine.Voiceswithoutbodies.Scaredthelivinghelloutofme.Laterinlife
I was never comfortable. Seemed to me a phone was an impersonal
instrument. If it felt like it, it let your personality go through its wires.Ifit
didn'twantto,itjustdrainedyourpersonalityawayuntilwhatslippedthrough
at the other end was some cold fish of a voice, all steel, copper,plastic,no
warmth, no reality. It's easy to say the wrong thing on telephones; the
telephone changes your meaning on you.Firstthingyouknow,you'vemade
anenemy.Then,ofcourse,thetelephone'ssuchaconvenientthing;itjustsits
there and demands you call someone who doesn'twanttobecalled.Friends
were always calling, calling, calling me. Hell, I hadn'tanytimeofmyown.
Whenitwasn'tthetelephoneitwasthetelevision,theradio,thephonograph.
When it wasn't the television or radio or the phonograph it was motion
picturesatthecornertheater,motionpicturesprojected,withcommercialson
low-lying cumulus clouds. It doesn't rain rain any more, it rains soapsuds.
When it wasn't High-Fly Cloud advertisements, it was music by Mozzek in
everyrestaurant;musicandcommercialsonthebussesIrodetowork.Whenit
wasn'tmusic,itwasinterofficecommunications,andmyhorrorchamberofa
radiowristwatchonwhichmyfriendsandmywifephonedeveryfiveminutes.
What is there about such 'conveniences' that makes them so temptingly
convenient?Theaveragemanthinks,HereIam,timeonmyhands,andthere
onmywristisawristtelephone,sowhynotjustbuzzoldJoeup,eh?'Hello,
hello!'Ilovemyfriends,mywife,humanity,verymuch,butwhenoneminute
my wife calls to say,'Whereareyounow,dear?'andafriendcallsandsays,
'Gotthebestoff-colorjoketotellyou.Seemstherewasaguy-'Andastranger
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ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheMurderer
calls and cries out, 'ThisistheFind-FaxPoll.Whatgumareyouchewingat
thisveryinstant?'Well!"
"Howdidyoufeelduringtheweek?"
"Thefuselit.Ontheedgeofthecliff.ThatsameafternoonIdidwhat
Ididattheoffice."
"Whichwas?"
"Ipouredapapercupofwaterintotheintercommunicationssystem."
Thepsychiatristwroteonhispad.
"Andthesystemshorted?"
"Beautifully! The Fourth of July on wheels! MyGod,stenographers
ranaroundlookinglost!Whatanuproar!"
"Feltbettertemporarily,eh?"
"Fine!ThenIgottheideaatnoonofstompingmywristradioonthe
sidewalk.Ashrillvoicewasjustyellingoutofitatme,'ThisisPeople'sPoll
NumberNine.Whatdidyoueatforlunch?'whenIkickedthewristradio!"
"Feltevenbetter,eh?"
"Itgrewonme!"Brockrubbedhishandstogether."Whydidn'tIstart
asolitaryrevolution,delivermanfromcertain'conveniences'?'Convenientfor
who?' I cried. Convenientforfriends:'Hey,Al,thoughtI'dcallyoufromthe
locker room outhereatGreenHills.Justmadeasockdolagerholeinone!A
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ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheMurderer
hole in one, Al! A beautiful day. Having a shot of whiskey now. Thought
you'd want to know, Al!' Convenient for myoffice,sowhenI'minthefield
withmyradiocarthere'snomomentwhenI'mnotintouch.Intouch!There's
a slimy phrase. Touch, hell. Gripped! Pawed, rather. Mauled and massaged
and pounded by FM voices. You can't leave your car without checking in:
'Have stopped to visit gas-station men's room.' 'Okay, Brock, step on it!'
'Brock, what took you so long?''Sorry,sir.''Watchitnexttime,Brock.''Yes,
sir!'So,doyouknowwhatIdid,Doctor?IboughtaquartofFrenchchocolate
icecreamandspooneditintothecarradiotransmitter."
"Was there any special reason for selecting French chocolate ice
creamtospoonintothebroadcastingunit?"
Brockthoughtaboutitandsmiled."It'smyfavoriteflavor."
"Oh,"saidthedoctor.
"I figured, hell, what's good enough for me is good enough for the
radiotransmitter."
"Whatmadeyouthinkofspooningicecreamintotheradio?"
"Itwasahotday."
Thedoctorpaused.
"Andwhathappenednext?"
"Silencehappenednext.God,itwasbeautiful.Thatcarradiocackling
allday,'Brockgohere,Brockgothere,Brockcheckin,Brockcheckout,okay
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ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheMurderer
Brock,hourlunch,Brock,lunchover,Brock,Brock,Brock.'Well,thatsilence
waslikeputtingicecreaminmyears."
"Youseemtolikeicecreamalot."
"I just rodearoundfeelingofthesilence.It'sabigboltofthenicest,
softest flannel ever made. Silence. A whole hour of it. I just sat in my car,
smiling,feelingofthatflannelwithmyears.IfeltdrunkwithFreedom!"
"Goon."
"ThenIgottheideaoftheportablediathermymachine.Irentedone,
took it on the bus going home that night. There sat all the tired commuters
withtheirwristradios,talkingtotheirwives,saying,'NowI'matForty-third,
now I'm at Forty-fourth,hereIamatForty-ninth,nowturningatSixty-first.'
Onehusbandcursing,'Well,getoutofthatbar,damnit,andgethomeandget
dinner started, I'm at Seventieth!'Andthetransit-systemradioplaying'Tales
from the Vienna Woods,' a canary singing words about a first-rate wheat
cereal. Then-I switched onmydiathermy!Static!Interference!Allwivescut
offfromhusbandsgrousingaboutaharddayattheoffice.Allhusbandscutoff
from wives who had just seen their children break a window! The 'Vienna
Woods' chopped down, the canary mangled. Silence! A terrible, unexpected
silence. The bus inhabitants faced with having to converse with each other.
Panic!Sheer,animalpanic!"
"Thepoliceseizedyou?"
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ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheMurderer
"The bus had to stop. After all, the music was being scrambled,
husbands and wives were out of touch with reality. Pandemonium, riot,and
chaos.Squirrelschatteringincages!Atroubleunitarrived,triangulatedonme
instantly, had me reprimanded, fined, and home, minus my diathermy
machine,injigtime."
"Mr. Brock, may I suggest that sofaryourwholepatternhereisnot
very-practical?Ifyoudidn'tliketransitradiosorofficeradiosorcarbusiness
radios,whydidn'tyoujoinafraternityofradiohaters,startpetitions,getlegal
andconstitutionalrulings?Afterall,thisisademocracy."
"And I," said Brock, "am thatthingbestcalledaminority.Ididjoin
fraternities, picket, passpetitions,takeittocourt.YearafteryearIprotested.
Everyonelaughed.Everyoneelselovedbusradiosandcommercials.Iwasout
ofstep."
"Then you should have taken it likeagoodsoldier,don'tyouthink?
Themajorityrules."
"But they went too far. If a little music and 'keeping in touch' was
charming,theyfiguredalotwouldbetentimesascharming.Iwentwild!Igot
hometofindmywifehysterical.Why?Becauseshehadbeencompletelyout
oftouchwithmeforhalfaday.Remember,Ididadanceonmywristradio?
Well,thatnightIlaidplanstomurdermyhouse."
"Areyousurethat'showyouwantmetowriteitdown?"
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ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheMurderer
"That's semantically accurate. Kill it dead. It's one of those talking,
singing, humming, weather-reporting, poetry-reading, novel-reciting,
jingle-jangling, rockaby-crooning- when-you-go-to-bed houses. A housethat
screams opera to you in the shower and teaches you Spanish in your sleep.
OneofthoseblatheringcaveswhereallkindsofelectronicOraclesmakeyou
feelatriflelargerthanathimble,withstovesthatsay,'I'mapricotpie,andI'm
done,' or 'I'mprimeroastbeef,sobasteme!'andothernurserygibberishlike
that. With beds that rock you to sleep and shake you awake. A house that
barely tolerates humans, I tell you. A front door that barks:'You'vemudon
yourfeet,sir!'Andanelectronicvacuumhoundthatsnufflesaroundafteryou
fromroomtoroom,inhalingeveryfingernailorashyoudrop…"
"Quietly,"suggestedthepsychiatrist.
"Remember that GilbertandSullivansong-'I'veGotItonMyList,It
Never Will Be Missed'? All night I listed grievances. Next morning early I
bought a pistol. I purposely muddied my feet. Istoodatourfrontdoor.The
frontdoorshrilled,'Dirtyfeet,muddyfeet!Wipeyourfeet!Pleasebeneat!'I
shot the damn thing initskeyhole!Irantothekitchen,wherethestovewas
just whining, 'Turn me over!' InthemiddleofamechanicalomeletIdidthe
stove to death. Oh, how it sizzled and screamed, 'I'm shorted!' Then the
telephone rang like a spoiled brat. I shoved it down theInsinkerator.Imust
statehereandnowIhavenothingwhateveragainsttheInsinkerator;itwasan
innocent bystander. I feel sorry for it now, a practical device indeed, which
neversaidaword,purredlikeasleepylionmostofthetime,anddigestedour
leftovers. I'll have it restored. Then I went in and shot the televisor, that
25
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheMurderer
insidious beast, that Medusa, which freezes a billion people to stone every
night,staringfixedly,thatSirenwhichcalledandsangandpromisedsomuch
andgave,afterall,solittle,butmyselfalwaysgoingback,goingback,hoping
and waiting until-bang! Like a headless turkey, gobbling, my wifewhooped
outthefrontdoor.Thepolicecame.HereIam!"
Hesatbackhappilyandlitacigarette.
"Anddidyourealize,incommittingthesecrimes,thatthewristradio,
thebroadcastingtransmitter,thephone,thebusradio,theofficeintercoms,all
wererentedorweresomeoneelse'sproperty?"
"Iwoulddoitalloveragain,sohelpmeGod."
Thepsychiatristsatthereinthesunshineofthatbeatificsmile.
"You don't want any further help from the OfficeofMentalHealth?
You'rereadytotaketheconsequences?"
"Thisisonlythebeginning,"saidMr.Brock."I'mthevanguardofthe
smallpublicwhichistiredofnoiseandbeingtakenadvantageofandpushed
aroundandyelledat,everymomentmusic,everymomentintouchwithsome
voice somewhere, do this, do that, quick,quick,nowhere,nowthere.You'll
see.Therevoltbegins.Mynamewillgodowninhistory!"
"Mmm."Thepsychiatristseemedtobethinking.
"It'll take time, of course. It was all so enchanting atfirst.Thevery
ideaofthesethings,thepracticaluses,waswonderful.Theywerealmosttoys,
26
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheMurderer
to be played with, but the people got too involved, went too far, and got
wrappedupinapatternofsocialbehaviorandcouldn'tgetout,couldn'tadmit
they were in, even. So they rationalized theirnervesassomethingelse.'Our
modern age,' they said. 'Conditions,' they said. 'Highstrung,' they said. But
mark my words, the seed has been sown. Igotworld-widecoverageonTV,
radio,films;there'sanironyforyou.Thatwasfivedaysago.Abillionpeople
know about me. Check your financial columns.Anydaynow.Maybetoday.
Watchforasuddenspurt,ariseinsalesforFrenchchocolateicecream!"
"Isee,"saidthepsychiatrist.
"CanIgobacktomyniceprivatecellnow,whereIcanbealoneand
quietforsixmonths?"
"Yes,"saidthepsychiatristquietly.
"Don'tworryaboutme,"saidMr.Brock,rising."I'mjustgoingtosit
around for a long time stuffing that nice soft bolt of quiet material in both
ears."
"Mmm,"saidthepsychiatrist,goingtothedoor.
"Cheers,"saidMr.Brock.
"Yes,"saidthepsychiatrist.
He pressed a code signal on a hidden button, the door opened, he
stepped out, the door shut and locked. Alone, he moved in the offices and
corridors. The first twenty yards of his walk were accompanied by
27
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheMurderer
"Tambourine Chinois."Thenitwas"Tzigane,"Bach'sPassacagliaandFugue
in something Minor, "Tiger Rag," "Love Is Like a Cigarette." He took his
brokenwristradiofromhispocketlikeadeadprayingmantis.Heturnedinat
hisoffice.Abellsounded;avoicecameoutoftheceiling,"Doctor?"
"JustfinishedwithBrock,"saidthepsychiatrist.
"Diagnosis?"
"Seems completely disoriented, but convivial. Refuses to accept the
simplestrealitiesofhisenvironmentandworkwiththem."
"Prognosis?"
"Indefinite.Lefthimenjoyingapieceofinvisiblematerial."
Threephonesrang.Aduplicatewristradioinhisdeskdrawerbuzzed
like a wounded grasshopper. The intercom flashed a pink light and
click-clicked. Threephonesrang.Thedrawerbuzzed.Musicblewinthrough
theopendoor.Thepsychiatrist,hummingquietly,fittedthenewwristradioto
his wrist, flipped the intercom, talked a moment, picked up one telephone,
talked, picked up another telephone, talked, picked up the third telephone,
talked,touchedthewrist-radiobutton,talkedcalmlyandquietly,hisfacecool
and serene, in the middle of the music and the lights flashing, the phones
ringing again, and his hands moving, and his wrist radio buzzing, and the
intercoms talking, and voices speaking from the ceiling. And he went on
quietly this way through the remainder of a cool, air-conditioned, and long
afternoon; telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wristradio,intercom,
28
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheMurderer
telephone, wrist radio, intercom, telephone, wrist radio,intercom,telephone,
wristradio,intercom,telephone,wristradio...
29
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheMurderer
Notes:
30
FromTheIllustratedMan,1951 ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury
TheVeldt
“George,Iwishyou’dlookatthenursery.”
“What’swrongwithit?”
“Idon’tknow.”
“Well,then.”
“Ijustwantyoutolookatit,isall,orcallapsychologistintolookatit.”
“Whatwouldapsychologistwantwithanursery?”
“Youknowverywellwhathe’dwant.”Hiswifepausedinthemiddleof
thekitchenandwatchedthestovebusyhummingtoitself,makingsupperfor
four.
“It’sjustthatthenurseryisdifferentnowthanitwas.”
“Allright,let’shavealook.”
TheywalkeddownthehalloftheirsoundproofedHappylifeHome,which
had cost themthirtythousanddollarsinstalled,thishousewhichclothedand
fed and rocked them to sleep and played and sang and was good to them.
Theirapproachsensitizedaswitchsomewhereandthenurserylightflickedon
when they came within ten feet of it. Similarly, behind them, in the halls,
lightswentonandoffastheyleftthembehind,withasoftautomaticity.
“Well,”saidGeorgeHadley.
Reproducedunder“fairuse”guidelinesforeducation.
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
***
Theystoodonthethatchedfloorofthenursery.Itwasfortyfeetacrossby
fortyfeetlongandthirtyfeethigh;ithadcosthalfagainasmuchastherestof
thehouse.
“Butnothing’stoogoodforourchildren,”Georgehadsaid.
The nursery was silent.Itwasemptyasajunglegladeathothighnoon.
Thewallswereblankandtwodimensional.Now,asGeorgeandLydiaHadley
stood in the center of the room, the walls began to purr and recede into
crystalline distance, it seemed, and presently an African veldt appeared, in
threedimensions,onallsides,incolorreproducedtothefinalpebbleandbit
ofstraw.Theceilingabovethembecameadeepskywithahotyellowsun.
GeorgeHadleyfelttheperspirationstartonhisbrow.
“Let’sgetoutofthissun,”hesaid.“Thisisalittletooreal.ButIdon’tsee
anythingwrong.”
“Waitamoment,you’llsee,”saidhiswife.
Now the hiddenodorophonicswerebeginningtoblowawindofodorat
the two people in the middle ofthebakedveldtland.Thehotstrawsmellof
liongrass,thecoolgreensmellofthehiddenwaterhole,thegreatrustysmell
of animals, the smell of dust like a red paprika in the hot air.Andnowthe
sounds: the thump ofdistantantelopefeetongrassysod,thepaperyrustling
of vultures. A shadow passed through the sky. The shadow flickered on
GeorgeHadley’supturned,sweatingface.
32
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
“Filthycreatures,”heheardhiswifesay.
“Thevultures.”
“Yousee,therearethelions,farover,thatway.Nowthey’reontheirway
tothewaterhole.They’vejustbeeneating,”saidLydia.“Idon’tknowwhat.”
“Someanimal.”GeorgeHadleyputhishanduptoshieldofftheburning
lightfromhissquintedeyes.“Azebraorababygiraffe,maybe.”
“Areyousure?”Hiswifesoundedpeculiarlytense.
“No, it’s a little late to be sure,”hesaid,amused.“NothingoverthereI
canseebutcleanedbone,andthevulturesdroppingforwhat’sleft.”
“Didyoubearthatscream?”sheasked.
“No.”
“Aboutaminuteago?”
“Sorry,no.”
The lions were coming. And again George Hadley was filled with
admirationforthemechanicalgeniuswhohadconceivedthisroom.Amiracle
ofefficiencysellingforanabsurdlylowprice.Everyhomeshouldhaveone.
Oh,occasionallytheyfrightenedyouwiththeirclinicalaccuracy,theystartled
you,gaveyouatwinge,butmostofthetimewhatfunforeveryone,notonly
yourownsonanddaughter,butforyourselfwhenyoufeltlikeaquickjaunt
toaforeignland,aquickchangeofscenery.Well,hereitwas!
33
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
Andherewerethelionsnow,fifteenfeetaway,soreal,sofeverishlyand
startlinglyrealthatyoucouldfeelthepricklingfuronyourhand,and
yourmouthwasstuffedwiththedustyupholsterysmelloftheirheatedpelts,
and the yellow of them was in your eyes like the yellow of an exquisite
Frenchtapestry,theyellowsoflionsandsummergrass,andthesoundofthe
mattedlionlungsexhalingonthesilentnoontide,andthesmellofmeatfrom
the panting, dripping mouths. The lions stood looking at George and Lydia
Hadleywithterriblegreen-yelloweyes.
“Watchout!”screamedLydia.
Thelionscamerunningatthem.
Lydia bolted and ran. Instinctively, George sprang after her. Outside, in
thehall,withthedoorslammedhewaslaughingandshewascrying,andthey
bothstoodappalledattheother’sreaction.
“George!”
“Lydia!Oh,mydearpoorsweetLydia!”
“Theyalmostgotus!”
“Walls, Lydia, remember;crystalwalls,that’salltheyare.Oh,theylook
real, I must admit — Africa in your parlor — but it’s all dimensional,
superreactionary, supersensitive colorfilmandmentaltapefilmbehindglass
screens.It’sallodorophonicsandsonics,Lydia.Here’smyhandkerchief.”
34
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
“I’m afraid.” She came to him and put her body against him and cried
steadily.“Didyousee?Didyoufeel?It’stooreal.”
“Now,Lydia...”
“You’vegottotellWendyandPeternottoreadanymoreonAfrica.”
“Ofcourse—ofcourse.”Hepattedher.
“Promise?”
“Sure.”
“AndlockthenurseryforafewdaysuntilIgetmynervessettled.”
“You know how difficult Peter is about that. When I punished him a
month ago by locking the nursery for even a few hours — the tantrum be
threw!AndWendytoo.Theyliveforthenursery.”
“It’sgottobelocked,that’sallthereistoit.”
“All right.” Reluctantly he locked thehugedoor.“You’vebeenworking
toohard.Youneedarest.”
“Idon’tknow—Idon’tknow,”shesaid,blowinghernose,sittingdown
in a chair that immediately began to rock and comfort her. “Maybe I don’t
haveenoughtodo.MaybeIhavetimetothinktoomuch.Whydon’tweshut
thewholehouseoffforafewdaysandtakeavacation?”
“Youmeanyouwanttofrymyeggsforme?”
35
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
“Yes.”Shenodded.
“Anddammysocks?”
“Yes.”Afrantic,watery-eyednodding.
“Andsweepthehouse?”
“Yes,yes—oh,yes!”
“But I thought that’swhyweboughtthishouse,sowewouldn’thaveto
doanything?”
“That’s just it. I feel like I don’t belong here. The house is wife and
mothernow,andnursemaid.CanIcompetewithanAfricanveldt?CanIgive
a bath andscrubthechildrenasefficientlyorquicklyastheautomaticscrub
bathcan?Icannot.Anditisn’tjustme.It’syou.You’vebeenawfullynervous
lately.”
“IsupposeIhavebeensmokingtoomuch.”
“You look as if you didn’t knowwhattodowithyourselfinthishouse,
either. You smoke a little more every morning anddrinkalittlemoreevery
afternoonandneedalittlemoresedativeeverynight.You’rebeginningtofeel
unnecessarytoo.”
“Am I?” He paused and triedtofeelintohimselftoseewhatwasreally
there.
36
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
“Oh,George!”Shelookedbeyondhim,atthenurserydoor.“Thoselions
can’tgetoutofthere,canthey?”
He looked at the door and saw it tremble as if something had jumped
againstitfromtheotherside.
“Ofcoursenot,”hesaid.
***
At dinner they ate alone, for Wendy and Peter were at a specialplastic
carnivalacrosstownandbadtelevisedhometosaythey’dbelate,togoahead
eating. So George Hadley, bemused, sat watching the dining-room table
producewarmdishesoffoodfromitsmechanicalinterior.
“Weforgottheketchup,”hesaid.
“Sorry,”saidasmallvoicewithinthetable,andketchupappeared.
As for thenursery,thoughtGeorgeHadley,itwon’thurtforthechildren
to be locked out of it awhile. Too much of anything isn’t good foranyone.
And it was clearly indicated that the children had beenspendingalittletoo
much time on Africa. That sun.Hecouldfeelitonhisneck,still,likeahot
paw. And the lions. And the smell of blood. Remarkable how the nursery
caughtthetelepathicemanationsofthechildren’smindsandcreatedlifetofill
their every desire. The children thought lions, and there were lions. The
children thought zebras, and there were zebras. Sun — sun. Giraffes —
giraffes.Deathanddeath.
37
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
Thatlast.Hechewedtastelesslyonthemeatthatthetablebadcutforhim.
Death thoughts. They were awfully young, Wendy and Peter, for death
thoughts. Or, no, you were never too young, really. Long before you knew
what death was you were wishing it on someone else. When you weretwo
yearsoldyouwereshootingpeoplewithcappistols.
Butthis—thelong,hotAfricanveldt—theawfuldeathinthejawsofa
lion.Andrepeatedagainandagain.
“Whereareyougoing?”
He didn’t answer Lydia. Preoccupied, be let the lights glow softly on
ahead of him, extinguish behind him as he padded to the nursery door. He
listenedagainstit.Faraway,alionroared.
He unlocked the door and opened it. Just before he stepped inside, he
heardafarawayscream.Andthenanotherroarfromthelions,whichsubsided
quickly.
He stepped into Africa. How manytimesinthelastyearhadheopened
this door andfoundWonderland,Alice,theMockTurtle,orAladdinandhis
Magical Lamp, or Jack Pumpkinhead of Oz, or Dr. Doolittle, or the cow
jumping over a veryreal-appearingmoon-allthedelightfulcontraptionsofa
make-believeworld.HowoftenhadheseenPegasusflyingintheskyceiling,
orseenfountainsofredfireworks,orheardangelvoicessinging.Butnow,is
yellowhotAfrica,thisbakeovenwithmurderintheheat.PerhapsLydiawas
right. Perhaps they needed a little vacation from the fantasy which was
growing a bit too real for ten-year-old children. It was all right to exercise
38
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
one’smindwithgymnasticfantasies,butwhenthelivelychildmindsettledon
one pattern...? Itseemedthat,atadistance,forthepastmonth,hehadheard
lions roaring, and smelledtheirstrongodorseepingasfarawayashisstudy
door.But,beingbusy,hehadpaiditnoattention.
GeorgeHadleystoodontheAfricangrasslandalone.Thelionslookedup
fromtheirfeeding,watchinghim.Theonlyflawtotheillusionwastheopen
door through which he could see his wife, far down the dark hall, like a
framedpicture,eatingherdinnerabstractedly.
“Goaway,”hesaidtothelions.
Theydidnotgo.
He knew the principle of the room exactly. You sentoutyourthoughts.
Whatever you thought would appear. “Let’shaveAladdinandhislamp,”he
snapped.Theveldtlandremained;thelionsremained.
“Comeon,room!IdemandAladin!”hesaid.
Nothinghappened.Thelionsmumbledintheirbakedpelts.
“Aladin!”
Hewentbacktodinner.“Thefoolroom’soutoforder,”hesaid.“Itwon’t
respond.”
“Or—”
“Orwhat?”
39
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
“Or it can’t respond,” said Lydia, “because the children have thought
aboutAfricaandlionsandkillingsomanydaysthattheroom’sinarut.”
“Couldbe.”
“OrPeter’ssetittoremainthatway.”
“Setit?”
“Hemayhavegotintothemachineryandfixedsomething.”
“Peterdoesn’tknowmachinery.”
“He’sawiseoneforten.ThatI.Q.ofhis—”
“Nevertheless—”
“Hello,Mom.Hello,Dad.”
The Hadleys turned. Wendy and Peter were coming in the front door,
cheekslikepeppermintcandy,eyeslikebrightblueagatemarbles,asmellof
ozone on their jumpers from theirtripinthehelicopter.“You’rejustintime
forsupper,”saidbothparents.
“We’re full of strawberry ice cream and hot dogs,” said the children,
holdinghands.“Butwe’llsitandwatch.”
“Yes,cometellusaboutthenursery,”saidGeorgeHadley.
Thebrotherandsisterblinkedathimandthenateachother.
40
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
“Nursery?”
“AllaboutAfricaandeverything,”saidthefatherwithfalsejoviality.
“Idon’tunderstand,”saidPeter.
“Your motherandIwerejusttravelingthroughAfricawithrodandreel;
TomSwiftandhisElectricLion,”saidGeorgeHadley.
“There’snoAfricainthenursery,”saidPetersimply.
“Oh,comenow,Peter.Weknowbetter.”
“Idon’trememberanyAfrica,”saidPetertoWendy.“Doyou?”
“No.”
“Runseeandcometell.”
Sheobeyed.
“Wendy, come back here!” said George Hadley, but she was gone. The
houselightsfollowedherlikeaflockoffireflies.Toolate,herealizedhehad
forgottentolockthenurserydoorafterhislastinspection.
“Wendy’lllookandcometellus,”saidPeter.
“Shedoesn’thavetotellme.I’veseenit.”
“I’msureyou’remistaken,Father.”
“I’mnot,Peter.Comealongnow.”
41
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
ButWendywasback.“It’snotAfrica,”shesaidbreathlessly.
“We’llseeaboutthis,”saidGeorgeHadley,andtheyallwalkeddownthe
halltogetherandopenedthenurserydoor.
There was a green, lovely forest,alovelyriver,apurplemountain,high
voices singing, and Rima, lovely and mysterious, lurking in the trees with
colorful flights of butterflies, like animated bouquets, lingering in her long
hair. The African veldtland was gone. Thelionsweregone.OnlyRimawas
herenow,singingasongsobeautifulthatitbroughttearstoyoureyes.
GeorgeHadleylookedinatthechangedscene.“Gotobed,”hesaidtothe
children.
Theyopenedtheirmouths.
“Youheardme,”hesaid.
They went off to the air closet, where a wind sucked them like brown
leavesupthefluetotheirslumberrooms.
George Hadley walked through the singing glade and picked up
something that lay in the comer near where the lions had been. He walked
slowlybacktohiswife.
“Whatisthat?”sheasked.
“Anoldwalletofmine,”hesaid.
42
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
He showed it to her.Thesmellofhotgrasswasonitandthesmellofa
lion. There were drops of saliva on it, it bad been chewed, and there were
bloodsmearsonbothsides.
Heclosedthenurserydoorandlockedit,tight.
***
In the middle of the night he wasstillawakeandheknewhiswifewas
awake.“DoyouthinkWendychangedit?”shesaidatlast,inthedarkroom.
“Ofcourse.”
“MadeitfromaveldtintoaforestandputRimathereinsteadoflions?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Idon’tknow.Butit’sstayinglockeduntilIfindout.”
“Howdidyourwalletgetthere?”
“I don’t knowanything,”hesaid,“exceptthatI’mbeginningtobesorry
we bought that room for the children. If childrenareneuroticatall,aroom
likethat—”
“It’ssupposedtohelpthemworkofftheirneurosesinahealthfulway.”
“I’mstartingtowonder.”Hestaredattheceiling.
43
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
“We’ve given the children everything they ever wanted. Is this our
reward-secrecy,disobedience?”
“Who was it said, ‘Children are carpets, they should be stepped on
occasionally’?
We’ve never lifted a hand. They’re insufferable — let’s admit it. They
come and go when they like; they treat us as ifwewereoffspring.They’re
spoiledandwe’respoiled.”
“They’ve been acting funny ever since you forbade them to take the
rockettoNewYorkafewmonthsago.”
“They’renotoldenoughtodothatalone,Iexplained.”
“Nevertheless,I’venoticedthey’vebeendecidedlycooltowardussince.”
“IthinkI’llhaveDavidMcCleancometomorrowmorningtohavealook
atAfrica.”
“Butit’snotAfricanow,it’sGreenMansionscountryandRima.”
“Ihaveafeelingit’llbeAfricaagainbeforethen.”
Amomentlatertheyheardthescreams.
Twoscreams.Twopeoplescreamingfromdownstairs.Andthenaroarof
lions.
“WendyandPeteraren’tintheirrooms,”saidhiswife.
44
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
He layinhisbedwithhisbeatingheart.“No,”hesaid.“They’vebroken
intothenursery.”
“Thosescreams—theysoundfamiliar.”
“Dothey?”
“Yes,awfully.”
Andalthoughtheirbedstriedverybard,thetwoadultscouldn’tberocked
tosleepforanotherhour.Asmellofcatswasinthenightair.
***
“Father?”saidPeter.
“Yes.”
Peter lookedathisshoes.Heneverlookedathisfatheranymore,norat
hismother.“Youaren’tgoingtolockupthenurseryforgood,areyou?”
“Thatalldepends.”
“Onwhat?”snappedPeter.
“Onyouandyoursister.IfyouinterspersethisAfricawithalittlevariety
—oh,Swedenperhaps,orDenmarkorChina—”
45
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
“Ithoughtwewerefreetoplayaswewished.”
“Youare,withinreasonablebounds.”
“What’swrongwithAfrica,Father?”
“Oh,sonowyouadmityouhavebeenconjuringupAfrica,doyou?”
“Iwouldn’twantthenurserylockedup,”saidPetercoldly.“Ever.”
“Matteroffact,we’rethinkingofturningthewholehouseoffforabouta
month.Livesortofacarefreeone-for-allexistence.”
“That sounds dreadful! Would I have to tie my own shoes instead of
letting the shoe tier do it? And brush my own teeth and comb myhairand
givemyselfabath?”
“Itwouldbefunforachange,don’tyouthink?”
“No, it would be horrid. I didn’t like it when you took out the picture
painterlastmonth.”
“That’sbecauseIwantedyoutolearntopaintallbyyourself,son.”
“I don’t want to do anything but look andlistenandsmell;whatelseis
theretodo?”
“Allright,goplayinAfrica.”
“Willyoushutoffthehousesometimesoon?”
46
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
“We’reconsideringit.”
“Idon’tthinkyou’dbetterconsideritanymore,Father.”
“Iwon’thaveanythreatsfrommyson!”
“Verywell.”AndPeterstrolledofftothenursery.
***
“AmIontime?”saidDavidMcClean.
“Breakfast?”askedGeorgeHadley.
“Thanks,hadsome.What’sthetrouble?”
“David,you’reapsychologist.”
“Ishouldhopeso.”
“Well, then, havealookatournursery.Yousawitayearagowhenyou
droppedby;didyounoticeanythingpeculiaraboutitthen?”
“Can’tsayIdid;theusualviolences,atendencytowardaslightparanoia
here or there, usual in children because they feel persecuted by parents
constantly,but,oh,reallynothing.”
They walked down the ball. “I locked the nursery up,” explained the
father,“andthechildrenbrokebackintoitduringthenight.Iletthemstayso
theycouldformthepatternsforyoutosee.”
47
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
Therewasaterriblescreamingfromthenursery.
“Thereitis,”saidGeorgeHadley.“Seewhatyoumakeofit.”
Theywalkedinonthechildrenwithoutrapping.
Thescreamshadfaded.Thelionswerefeeding.
“Run outside a moment, children,” said George Hadley. “No, don’t
changethementalcombination.Leavethewallsastheyare.Get!”
Withthechildrengone,thetwomenstoodstudyingthelionsclusteredat
adistance,eatingwithgreatrelishwhateveritwastheyhadcaught.
“I wish I knew what it was,” said George Hadley. “Sometimes I can
almostsee.DoyouthinkifIbroughthigh-poweredbinocularshereand—”
David McClean laughed dryly. “Hardly.” He turned to study all four
walls.“Howlonghasthisbeengoingon?”
“Alittleoveramonth.”
“Itcertainlydoesn’tfeelgood.”
“Iwantfacts,notfeelings.”
“My dear George, a psychologist never saw a fact in his life. He only
hearsaboutfeelings;vaguethings.Thisdoesn’tfeelgood,Itellyou.Trustmy
hunchesandmyinstincts.Ihaveanoseforsomethingbad.Thisisverybad.
My advice to you is to have the whole damn room torn down and your
childrenbroughttomeeverydayduringthenextyearfortreatment.”
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ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
“Isitthatbad?”
“I’mafraidso.Oneoftheoriginalusesofthesenurserieswassothatwe
could study the patterns left on the walls by the child’s mind, study at our
leisure, and help the child. In this case, however, the room has become a
channeltoward-destructivethoughts,insteadofareleaseawayfromthem.”
“Didn’tyousensethisbefore?”
“I sensed only that you bad spoiled your children morethanmost.And
nowyou’relettingthemdowninsomeway.Whatway?”
“Iwouldn’tletthemgotoNewYork.”
“Whatelse?”
“I’vetakenafewmachinesfromthehouseandthreatenedthem,amonth
ago,withclosingupthenurseryunlesstheydidtheirhomework.Ididcloseit
forafewdaystoshowImeantbusiness.”
“Ah,ha!”
“Doesthatmeananything?”
“Everything. Where before they had a Santa Claus now they have a
Scrooge.
Children prefer Santas. You’ve let this room andthishousereplaceyou
and your wife in your children’s affections. This room is their mother and
father, farmoreimportantintheirlivesthantheirrealparents.Andnowyou
49
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
come along and want to shut it off.Nowonderthere’shatredhere.Youcan
feelitcomingoutofthesky.Feelthatsun.George,you’llhavetochangeyour
life. Like too many others, you’ve built it around creature comforts. Why,
you’d starve tomorrow if something went wrong in your kitchen. You
wouldn’tknowbowtotapanegg.Nevertheless,turneverythingoff.
Start new. It’ll take time. But we’ll make good children outofbadina
year,waitandsee.”
“Butwon’ttheshockbetoomuchforthechildren,shuttingtheroomup
abruptly,forgood?”
“Idon’twantthemgoinganydeeperintothis,that’sall.”
Thelionswerefinishedwiththeirredfeast.
Thelionswerestandingontheedgeoftheclearingwatchingthetwomen.
“Now I’m feeling persecuted,” said McClean. “Let’s get out of here. I
neverhavecaredforthesedamnedrooms.Makemenervous.”
“The lions look real, don’t they?” said George Hadley. I don’t suppose
there’sanyway—”
“What?”
“—Thattheycouldbecomereal?”
“NotthatIknow.”
“Someflawinthemachinery,atamperingorsomething?”
50
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
“No.”
Theywenttothedoor.
“Idon’timaginetheroomwilllikebeingturnedoff,”saidthefather.
“Nothingeverlikestodie—evenaroom.”
“Iwonderifithatesmeforwantingtoswitchitoff?”
“Paranoia is thick around here today,” said David McClean. “You can
follow it like a spoor. Hello.” He bent and picked up a bloody scarf.“This
yours?”
“No.”GeorgeHadley’sfacewasrigid.“ItbelongstoLydia.”
They went to the fuse box together and threw the switchthatkilledthe
nursery.
***
Thetwochildrenwereinhysterics.Theyscreamedandprancedandthrew
things.Theyyelledandsobbedandsworeandjumpedatthefurniture.
“Youcan’tdothattothenursery,youcan’t!”
“Now,children.”
Thechildrenflungthemselvesontoacouch,weeping.
51
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
“George,” said Lydia Hadley, “turn on the nursery, just for a few
moments.Youcan’tbesoabrupt.”
“No.”
“Youcan’tbesocruel...”
“Lydia,it’soff,anditstaysoff.Andthewholedamnhousediesasofhere
andnow.
ThemoreIseeofthemesswe’veputourselvesin,themoreitsickensme.
We’vebeencontemplatingourmechanical,electronicnavelsfortoolong.My
God,howweneedabreathofhonestair!”
Andhemarchedaboutthehouseturningoffthevoiceclocks,thestoves,
theheaters,theshoeshiners,theshoelacers,thebodyscrubbersandswabbers
andmassagers,andeveryothermachinebecouldputhishandto.
The house was full of dead bodies, it seemed. It felt like a mechanical
cemetery.
So silent. None of the humming hidden energy of machines waiting to
functionatthetapofabutton.
“Don’tletthemdoit!”wailedPeterattheceiling,asifhewastalkingto
the house, the nursery. “Don’t let Father kill everything.” He turned to his
father.“Oh,Ihateyou!”
“Insultswon’tgetyouanywhere.”
52
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
“Iwishyouweredead!”
“Wewere,foralongwhile.Nowwe’regoingtoreallystartliving.Instead
ofbeinghandledandmassaged,we’regoingtolive.”
Wendy was still crying and Peter joined heragain.“Justamoment,just
onemoment,justanothermomentofnursery,”theywailed.
“Oh,George,”saidthewife,“itcan’thurt.”
“All right—allright,ifthey’lljustshutup.Oneminute,mindyou,and
thenoffforever.”
“Daddy,Daddy,Daddy!”sangthechildren,smilingwithwetfaces.
“Andthenwe’regoingonavacation.DavidMcCleaniscomingbackin
halfanhourtohelpusmoveoutandgettotheairport.I’mgoingtodress.You
turnthenurseryonforaminute,Lydia,justaminute,mindyou.”
Andthethreeofthemwentbabblingoffwhilehelethimselfbevacuumed
upstairs through the air flue and set about dressing himself. A minute later
Lydiaappeared.
“I’llbegladwhenwegetaway,”shesighed.
“Didyouleavetheminthenursery?”
“Iwantedtodresstoo.Oh,thathorridAfrica.Whatcantheyseeinit?”
“Well, in five minutes we’ll be on our way to Iowa. Lord, how didwe
evergetinthishouse?Whatpromptedustobuyanightmare?”
53
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
“Pride,money,foolishness.”
“I think we’d better get downstairsbeforethosekidsgetengrossedwith
thosedamnedbeastsagain.”
Justthentheyheardthechildrencalling,“Daddy,Mommy,comequick—
quick!”
Theywentdownstairsintheairflueandrandownthehall.Thechildren
werenowhereinsight.“Wendy?Peter!”
They ran into the nursery. The veldtland was empty save for the lions
waiting,lookingatthem.“Peter,Wendy?”
Thedoorslammed.
“Wendy,Peter!”
GeorgeHadleyandhiswifewhirledandranbacktothedoor.
“Open the door!” cried George Hadley, trying the knob. “Why, they’ve
lockeditfromtheoutside!Peter!”Hebeatatthedoor.“Openup!”
HeheardPeter’svoiceoutside,againstthedoor.
“Don’tletthemswitchoffthenurseryandthehouse,”hewassaying.
Mr.andMrs.GeorgeHadleybeatatthedoor.“Now,don’tberidiculous,
children.
It’stimetogo.Mr.McClean’llbehereinaminuteand...”
54
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
Andthentheyheardthesounds.
The lions on three sides of them, in the yellow veldt grass, padding
throughthedrystraw,rumblingandroaringintheirthroats.
Thelions.
Mr. Hadley looked at his wife and they turned and looked back at the
beastsedgingslowlyforwardcrouching,tailsstiff.
Mr.andMrs.Hadleyscreamed.
And suddenly they realized why those other screams bad sounded
familiar.
***
“Well, here I am,” said David McClean in the nursery doorway, “Oh,
hello.” He stared at the two children seated in the center of the openglade
eating a little picnic lunch. Beyond them wasthewaterholeandtheyellow
veldtland; above was the hot sun. He began to perspire. “Where are your
fatherandmother?”
Thechildrenlookedupandsmiled.“Oh,they’llbeheredirectly.”
“Good, we must get going.” At a distance Mr. McClean saw the lions
fighting and clawing and then quieting down to feed in silence under the
shadytrees.
Hesquintedatthelionswithhishandtiptohiseyes.
55
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
Now the lions were done feeding. They moved to thewaterholeto
drink.
A shadow flickered over Mr. McClean’s hot face. Many shadows
flickered.Thevulturesweredroppingdowntheblazingsky.
“Acupoftea?”askedWendyinthesilence.
***
56
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheVeldt
Notes:
57
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury FromTheIllustratedMan,1951
TheLastNightoftheWorld
"WHAT wouldyoudoifyouknewthatthiswasthelastnightofthe
world?""WhatwouldIdo?Youmeanseriously?"
"Yes,seriously."
"Idon’tknow.Ihadn’tthought."
Hepouredsomecoffee.Inthebackgroundthetwogirlswereplaying
blocks on theparlorruginthelightofthegreenhurricanelamps.Therewas
aneasy,cleanaromaofthebrewedcoffeeintheeveningair.
"Well,betterstartthinkingaboutit,"hesaid."Youdon’tmeanit!"
Henodded."Awar?"
Heshookhishead.
"Notthehydrogenoratombomb?""No."
"Orgermwarfare?"
"None of those at all," he said, stirringhiscoffeeslowly."Butjust,
let’ssay,theclosingofabook.""Idon’tthinkIunderstand."
"No, nor do I, really; it’s just a feeling. Sometimes it frightens me;
sometimes I’m not frightened at all but at peace." Heglancedinatthegirls
andtheiryellowhairshininginthelamplight."Ididn’tsayanythingtoyou.It
firsthappenedaboutfournightsago."
"What?"
Reproducedunder“fairuse”guidelinesforeducation.
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheLastNightoftheWorld
"AdreamIhad.Idreamedthatitwasallgoingtobeover,andavoice
saiditwas;notanykindofvoiceIcanremember,butavoiceanyway,andit
saidthingswouldstophereonEarth.Ididn’tthinktoomuchaboutitthenext
day, but then I went to the office and caught Stan Willis looking out the
windowinthemiddleoftheafternoon,andIsaidapennyforyourthoughts,
Stan, and he said, I had a dream last night, and before he even toldmethe
dreamIknewwhatitwas.Icouldhavetoldhim,buthetoldmeandIlistened
tohim."
"Itwasthesamedream?"
"Thesame.ItoldStanIhaddreamedittoo.Hedidn’tseemsurprised.
Herelaxed,infact.Thenwestartedwalkingthroughtheoffice,forthehellof
it. It wasn’t planned. We didn’t say, ‘Let’swalkaround.’Wejustwalkedon
ourown,andeverywherewesawpeoplelookingattheirdesksortheirhands
oroutwindows.Italkedtoafew.SodidStan."
"Andtheyallhaddreamed?"
"All of them. Thesamedream,withnodifference.""Doyoubelieve
init?"
"Yes.I’veneverbeenmorecertain."
"Andwhenwillitstop?Theworld,Imean."
"Sometime during the night for us, and then as the night goes on
aroundtheworld,that’llgotoo.It’lltaketwenty-fourhoursforitalltogo."
They sat awhile not touching their coffee. Then theylifteditslowly
59
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheLastNightoftheWorld
anddrank,lookingateachother.
"Dowedeservethis?"shesaid.
"It’s not a matter of deserving;it’sjustthatthingsdidn’tworkout.I
noticeyoudidn’tevenargueaboutthis.Whynot?"
"IguessI’veareason,"shesaid.
"Thesameoneeveryoneattheofficehad?"
She nodded slowly. "I didn’t want to say anything. It happened last
night. And the women on theblocktalkedaboutitamongthemselvestoday.
They dreamed. I thought it was only a coincidence." She picked up the
eveningpaper."There’snothinginthepaperaboutit."
"Everyoneknows,sothere’snoneed."
Hesatbackinhischair,watchingher."Areyouafraid?""No.Ialways
thoughtIwouldbe,butI’mnot."
"Where’sthatspiritcalledself-preservationtheytalksomuchabout?"
"I don’t know. You don’t get too excited when you feel things are
logical. This is logical. Nothing else but this could have happenedfromthe
waywe’velived."
"Wehaven’tbeentoobad,havewe?"
"No, nor enormously good. I suppose that’s the trouble. Wehaven’t
beenverymuchofanythingexceptus,whileabigpartoftheworldwasbusy
60
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheLastNightoftheWorld
beinglotsofquiteawfulthings."
Thegirlswerelaughingintheparlor.
"I always thought peoplewouldbescreaminginthestreetsatatime
likethis.""Iguessnot.Youdon’tscreamabouttherealthing."
"Do you know, I won’t miss anything but you andthegirls.Inever
liked cities or my work or anything except you three. I won’t miss a thing
except perhaps the change in the weather, andaglassoficewaterwhenit’s
hot,andImightmisssleeping.Howcanwesithereandtalkthisway?"
"Becausethere’snothingelsetodo."
"That’sit,ofcourse;foriftherewere,we’dbedoingit.Isupposethis
isthefirsttimeinthehistoryoftheworldthateveryonehasknownjustwhat
theyweregoingtododuringthenight."
"I wonder whateveryoneelsewilldonow,thisevening,forthenext
fewhours."
"Gotoashow,listentotheradio,watchtelevision,playcards,putthe
childrentobed,gotobedthemselves,likealways."
"Inawaythat’ssomethingtobeproudof...likealways."
Theysatamomentandthenhepouredhimselfanothercoffee."Why
doyousupposeit’stonight?""Because."
61
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheLastNightoftheWorld
"Whynotsomeothernightinthelastcentury,orfivecenturiesago,or
ten?"
"Maybe it’s because it was never October 19, 1969, ever before in
history, and now it is and that’s it; because this date means more than any
other date ever meant; because it’s the year when things are as they are all
overtheworldandthat’swhyit’stheend."
"There are bombers on their schedules both ways across the ocean
tonightthat’llneverseeland.""That’spartofthereasonwhy."
"Well,"hesaid,gettingup,"whatshallitbe?Washthedishes?"
Theywashedthedishesandstackedthemawaywithspecialneatness.
At eight-thirty the girls were put to bed and kissed goodnightandthelittle
lightsbytheirbedsturnedonandthedoorleftopenjustatrifle.
"Iwonder,"saidthehusband,comingfromthebedroomandglancing
back,standingtherewithhispipeforamoment.
"What?"
Ifthedoorwillbeshutalltheway,orifit’llbeleftjustalittleajarso
somelightcomesin.""Iwonderifthechildrenknow."
"No,ofcoursenot."
They sat and read the papers and talked and listened to some radio
music and thensattogetherbythefireplacewatchingthecharcoalembersas
the clock struck ten-thirty and eleven and eleven-thirty.Theythoughtofall
62
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheLastNightoftheWorld
the other people in the world who had spent their evening, each inhisown
specialway.
"Well,"hesaidatlast.
Hekissedhiswifeforalongtime.
"We’vebeengoodforeachother,anyway.""Doyouwanttocry?"he
asked.
"Idon’tthinkso."
Theymovedthroughthehouseandturnedoutthelightsandwentinto
thebedroomandstoodinthenightcooldarknessundressingandpushingback
thecovers."Thesheetsaresocleanandnice."
"I’mtired."
"We’re all tired." They got into bed and lay back. "Justamoment,"
shesaid.
Heheardhergetoutofbedandgointothekitchen.Amomentlater,
shereturned."Ileftthewaterrunninginthesink,"shesaid.
Something about this was so very funny that he had to laugh. She
laughed with him, knowing what it was that she had done that was funny.
They stopped laughing at last and lay in their cool night bed, their hands
clasped,theirheadstogether.
"Goodnight,"hesaid,afteramoment."Goodnight,"shesaid.
63
ShortStoriesbyRayBradbury TheLastNightoftheWorld
Notes:
64
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