Short Fiction Ray Bradbury (always you kirsty moseley TXT) 📖

visiport, drunkenly deciding the trajectories of a thousand invisible nothings. Then he began to argue with himself, drowsily, as he always argued when wine-webs were being spun through his skull by red, drowsy spiders. His heart beat dully. His little sharp eyes flickered with sudden flights of anger.

“You’re some liar, Mr. Nibley,” he told himself. “You point at meteors, but who’s to prove you right or wrong, right or wrong, eh? You sit up here and wait and wait and wait. Those machines down below spoil it. You never have a chance to prove your ability! No! The captain won’t use you! He won’t need you! None of those men believe in you. Think you’re a liar. Laugh at you. Yes, laugh. Yes, they call you an old, old liar!”

Nibley’s thin nostrils quivered. His thin wrinkled face was crimsoned and wild. He staggered to his feet, got hold of his favorite monkey-wrench and waved it slowly back and forth.

For a moment his heart almost stopped in him. In panic he clutched at his chest, pushing, pulling, pumping at his heart to keep it running. The wine. The excitement. He dropped the wrench. “No, not yet!” he looked down at his chest, wildly tearing at it. “Not just yet, oh please!” he cried. “Not until I show them!”

His heart went on beating, drunkenly, slowly.

He bent, retrieved the wrench and laughed numbly. “I’ll show ’em,” he cried, weaving across the deck. “Show them how good I am. Eliminate competition! I’ll run the ship myself!”

He climbed slowly down the rungs to destroy the machines.

It made a lot of noise.

Nibley heard a shout. “Get him!” His hand went down again, again. There was a scream of whistles, a jarring of flung metal, a minor explosion. His hand went down again, the wrench in it. He felt himself cursing and pounding away. Something shattered. Men ran toward him. This was the computator! He hit upon it once more. Yes! Then he was caught up like an empty sack, smashed in the face by someone’s fist, thrown to the deck. “Cut acceleration!” a voice cried far away. The ship slowed. Somebody kicked Nibley in the face. Blackness. Dark. Around and around down into darkness.⁠ ⁠…

When he opened his eyes again people were talking:

“We’re turning back.”

“The hell we are. Kroll says we’ll go on, anyway.”

“That’s suicide! We can’t hit that Asteroid Belt without radar.”

Nibley looked up from the floor. Kroll was there, over him, looking down at the old man. “I might have known,” he said, over and over again. He wavered in Nibley’s sobering vision.

The ship hung motionless, silent. Through the ports, Nibley saw they were based on the sunward side of a large planetoid, waiting, shielded from most of the asteroid particles.

“I’m sorry,” said Nibley.

“He’s sorry.” Kroll swore. “The very man we bring along as relief computator sabotages our machine! Hell!”

Bruno was in the room. Nibley saw Bruno’s eyes dilate at Kroll’s exclamation. Bruno knew now.

Nibley tried to get up. “We’ll get through the Swarm, anyway. I’ll take you through. That’s why I broke that blasted contraption. I don’t like competition. I can clear a path through them asteroids big enough to lug Luna through on Track Five!”

“Who gave you the wine?”

“I found it, I just found it, that’s all.”

The crew hated him with their eyes. He felt their hatred like so many meteors coming in and striking at him. They hated his shriveled, wrinkled old man guts. They stood around and waited for Kroll to let them kick him apart with their boots.

Kroll walked around the old man in a circle. “You think I’d chance you getting us through the Belt!” He snorted. “What if we got half through and you got potted again!” He stopped, with his back to Nibley. He was thinking. He kept looking over his shoulder at the old man. “I can’t trust you.” He looked out the port at the stars, at where Jupiter shone in space. “And yet⁠—” He looked at the men. “Do you want to turn back?”

Nobody moved. They didn’t have to answer. They didn’t want to go back. They wanted to go ahead.

“We’ll keep on going, then,” said Kroll.

Bruno spoke. “We crew-members should have some say. I say go back. We can’t make it. We’re just wasting our lives.”

Kroll glanced at him, coolly. “You seem to be alone.” He went back to the port. He rocked on his heels. “It was no accident Nibley got that wine. Somebody planted it, knowing Nibley’s weakness. Somebody who was paid off by the Martian Industrials to keep this ship from going through. This was a clever setup. The machines were smashed in such a way as to throw suspicion directly on an innocent, well, almost innocent, party. Nibley was just a tool. I’d like to know who handled that tool⁠—”

Nibley got up, the wrench in his gnarled hand. “I’ll tell you who planted that wine. I been thinking and now⁠—”

Darkness. A short-circuit. Feet running on the metal deck. A shout. A thread of fire across the darkness. Then a whistling as something flew, hit. Someone grunted.

The lights came on again. Nibley was at the light control.

On the floor, gun in hand, eyes beginning to numb, lay Bruno. He lifted the gun, fired it. The bullet hit Nibley in the stomach.

Nibley grabbed at the pain. Kroll kicked at Bruno’s head. Bruno’s head snapped back. He lay quietly.

The blood pulsed out between Nibley’s fingers. He watched it with interest, grinning with pain. “I knew his orbit,” he whispered, sitting down cross-legged on the deck. “When the lights went out I chose my own orbit back to the light switch. I knew where Bruno’d be in the dark. Havin’ a wrench handy I let fly, choosin’ my arc, naturally. Guess he’s got a hard skull, though.⁠ ⁠…”

They carried Nibley to a bunk. Douglas stood over him, dimly, growing older every second. Nibley squinted up. All the men tightened in upon it. Nibley felt their dismay, their dread, their worry, their nervous anger.

Finally, Kroll exhaled.