Ray Bradbury Stories Volume 2

‘Draw again. Start over.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’ he said incredulously.

‘I didn’t remember.’

‘Maria, Maria,’ he whispered, patting her face. He turned to the children. ‘Draw again.’

Paolo immediately drew the short straw.

‘I go to Mars!’ He danced wildly. ‘Thank you, Father!’

The other children edged away. ‘That’s swell, Paolo.’

Paolo stopped smiling to examine his parents and his brothers and sisters. ‘I can go, can’t I?’ he asked uncertainly.

‘Yes.’

‘And you’ll like me when I come back?’

‘Of course.’

Paolo studied the precious broomstraw on his trembling hand and shook his head. He threw it away. ‘I forgot. School starts. I can’t go. Draw again.’

But no one would draw. A full sadness lay on them.

‘None of us will go,’ said Lorenzo.

‘That’s best,’ said Maria.

‘Bramante was right,’ said Bodoni.

With his breakfast curdled within him, Fiorello Bodoni worked in his junkyard, ripping metal, melting it, pouring out usable ingots. His equipment flaked apart; competition had kept him on the insane edge of poverty for twenty years.

It was a very bad morning.

In the afternoon a man entered the junkyard and called up to Bodoni on his wrecking machine. ‘Hey, Bodoni, I got some metal for you!’

‘What is it, Mr Mathews?’ asked Bodoni, listlessly.

‘A rocket ship. What’s wrong? Don’t you want it?’

‘Yes, yes!’ He seized the man’s arm, and stopped, bewildered.

‘Of course,’ said Mathews, ‘it’s only a mockup. You know. When they plan a rocket they build a full-scale model first, of aluminum. You might make a small profit boiling her down. Let you have her for two thousand—’

Bodoni dropped his hand. ‘I haven’t the money.’

‘Sorry. Thought I’d help you. Last time we talked you said how everyone outbid you on junk. Thought I’d slip this to you on the q.t. Well—’

‘I need new equipment. I saved money for that.’

‘I understand.’

‘If I bought your rocket, I wouldn’t even be able to melt it down. My aluminum furnace broke down last week—’

‘Sure.’

‘I couldn’t possibly use the rocket if I bought it from you.’

‘I know.’

Bodoni blinked and shut his eyes. He opened them and looked at Mr Mathews. ‘But I am a great fool. I will take my money from the bank and give it to you.’

‘But if you can’t melt the rocket down—’

‘Deliver it,’ said Bodoni.

‘All right, if you say so. Tonight?’

‘Tonight,’ said Bodoni, ‘would be fine. Yes, I would like to have a rocket ship tonight.’

There was a moon. The rocket was white and big in the junkyard. It held the whiteness of the moon and the blueness of the stars. Bodoni looked at it and loved all of it. He wanted to pet it and lie against it, pressing it with his cheek, telling it all the secret wants of his heart.

He stared up at it. ‘You are all mine,’ he said. ‘Even if you never move or spit fire, and just sit there and rust for fifty years, you are mine.’

The rocket smelled of time and distance. It was like walking into a clock. It was finished with Swiss delicacy. One might wear it on one’s watch fob. ‘I might even sleep here tonight,’ Bodoni whispered excitedly.

He sat in the pilot’s seat.

He touched a lever.

He hummed in his shut mouth, his eyes closed.

The humming grew louder, louder, higher, higher, wilder, stranger, more exhilarating, trembling in him and leaning him forward and pulling him and the ship in a roaring silence and in a kind of metal screaming, while his fists flew over the controls, and his shut eyes quivered, and the sound grew and grew until it was a fire, a strength, a lifting and a pushing of power that threatened to tear him in half. He gasped. He hummed again and again, and did not stop, for it could not be stopped, it could only go on, his eyes tighter, his heart furious. ‘Taking off!’ he screamed. The jolting concussion! The thunder! ‘The Moon!’ he cried, eyes blind, tight. ‘The meteors!’ The silent rush in volcanic light. ‘Mars. Oh, yes! Mars! Mars!’

He fell back, exhausted and panting. His shaking hands came loose of the controls and his head tilted wildly. He sat for a long time, breathing out and in, his heart slowing.

Slowly, slowly, he opened his eyes.

The junkyard was still there.

He sat motionless. He looked at the heaped piles of metal for a minute, his eyes never leaving them. Then, leaping up, he kicked the levers. ‘Take off, blast you!’

The ship was silent.

‘I’ll show you!’ he cried.

Out in the night air, stumbling, he started the fierce motor of his terrible wrecking machine and advanced upon the rocket. He maneuvered the massive weights into the moonlit sky. He readied his trembling hands to plunge the weights, to smash, to rip apart this insolently false dream, this silly thing for which he had paid his money, which would not move, which would not do his bidding. ‘I’ll teach you!’ he shouted.