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

six! And set your automatic pilot to 61 and 14 and 35. Now⁠—everything’s okay. Keep your chronometer reading this way⁠—seven, nine, twelve. There’ll be a few tight scrapes, but you’ll hit Jupiter square on in 24 hours, if you jump your speed to 700,000 six hours from now and hold it that way.”

“Square on it is, Mr. Nibley.”

Nibley just lay there a moment. His voice was easy and not so high and shrill any more. “And on the way back to Mars, later, don’t try to find me. I’m going out in the dark on this metal rock. Nothing but dark for me. Back to perihelion and sun for you. Know⁠—know where I’m going?”

“Where?”

“Centaurus!” Nibley laughed. “So help me God I am. No lie!”

He watched the ship going out, then, and he felt the compact, collected trajectories of all the men in it. It was a good feeling to know that he was the guiding theme. Like in the old days.⁠ ⁠…

Douglas’ voice broke in again.

“Hey, Pop. Pop, you still there?”

A little silence. Nibley felt blood pulsing down inside his suit. “Yep,” he said.

“We just gave Bruno your little note to read. Whatever it was, when he finished reading it, he went insane.”

Nibley said, quiet-like. “Burn that there paper. Don’t let anybody else read it.”

A pause. “It’s burnt. What was it?”

“Don’t be inquisitive,” snapped the old man. “Maybe I proved to Bruno that he didn’t really exist. To hell with it!”

The rocket reached its constant speed. Douglas radioed back: “All’s well. Sweet calculating, Pop. I’ll tell the Rocket Officials back at Marsport. They’ll be glad to know about you. Sweet, sweet calculating. Thanks. How goes it? I said⁠—how goes it? Hey, Pop! Pop?”

Nibley raised a trembling hand and waved it at nothing. The ship was gone. He couldn’t even see the jet-wash now, he could only feel that hard metal movement out there among the stars, going on and on through a course he had set for it. He couldn’t speak. There was just emotion in him. He had finally, by God, heard a compliment from a mechanic of radar-computators!

He waved his hand at nothing. He watched nothing moving on and on into the crossed orbits of other invisible nothings. The silence was now complete.

He put his hand down. Now he had only to chart that one last personal orbit. The one he had wanted to finish only in space and not grounded back on Mars.

It didn’t take lightning calculation to set it out for certain.

Life and death were the parabolic ends to his trajectory. The long life, first swinging in from darkness, arcing to the inevitable perihelion, and now moving back out, out and away⁠—

Into the soft, encompassing dark.

“By God,” he thought weakly, quietly. “Right up to the last, my reputation’s good. Never fluked a calculation yet, and I never will.⁠ ⁠…”

He didn’t.

Pillar of Fire I

He came out of the earth, hating. Hate was his father; hate was his mother.

It was good to walk again. It was good to leap up out of the earth, off of your back, and stretch your cramped arms violently and try to take a deep breath!

He tried. He cried out.

He couldn’t breathe. He flung his arms over his face and tried to breathe. It was impossible. He walked on the earth, he came out of the earth. But he was dead. He couldn’t breathe. He could take air into his mouth and force it half down his throat, with withered moves of long-dormant muscles, wildly, wildly! And with this little air he could shout and cry! He wanted to have tears, but he couldn’t make them come, either. All he knew was that he was standing upright, he was dead, he shouldn’t be walking! He couldn’t breathe and yet he stood.

The smells of the world were all about him. Frustratedly, he tried to smell the smells of autumn. Autumn was burning the land down into ruin. All across the country the ruins of summer lay; vast forests bloomed with flame, tumbled down timber on empty, unleafed timber. The smoke of the burning was rich, blue, and invisible.

He stood in the graveyard, hating. He walked through the world and yet could not taste nor smell of it. He heard, yes. The wind roared on his newly opened ears. But he was dead. Even though he walked he knew he was dead and should expect not too much of himself or this hateful living world.

He touched the tombstone over his own empty grave. He knew his own name again. It was a good job of carving.

William Lantry

That’s what the grave stone said.

His fingers trembled on the cool stone surface.

Born 1898⁠–⁠Died 1933

Born again⁠ ⁠… ?

What year? He glared at the sky and the midnight autumnal stars moving in slow illuminations across the windy black. He read the tiltings of centuries in those stars. Orion thus and so, Aurega here! and where Taurus? There!

His eyes narrowed. His lips spelled out the year:

“2349.”

An odd number. Like a school sum. They used to say a man couldn’t encompass any number over a hundred. After that it was all so damned abstract there was no use counting. This was the year 2349! A numeral, a sum. And here he was, a man who had lain in his hateful dark coffin, hating to be buried, hating the living people above who lived and lived and lived, hating them for all the centuries, until today, now, born out of hatred, he stood by his own freshly excavated grave, the smell of raw earth in the air, perhaps, but he could not smell it!

“I,” he said, addressing a poplar tree that was shaken by the wind, “am an anachronism.” He smiled faintly.

He looked at the graveyard. It was cold and empty. All of the stones had been ripped up and piled like so many flat bricks, one atop another, in the far corner by the wrought iron fence. This had been going on for two endless weeks. In his deep