Ray Bradbury - The Martian Chronicles

THE MARTIAN CHRONICLES

by Ray Bradbury

Copyright 1946, 1948, 1949, 1950, 1958 by Ray Bradbury.

Copyright renewed 1977 by Ray Bradbury.

A Bantam Spectra Book / published by arrangement with Doubleday.

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Doubleday edition published May l950

Science Fiction Book Club edition / November 1952

Bantam edition / June 1951

New Bantam edition / October 1954

Bantam paperback edition / September 1979

All rights reserved.

ISBN 0-553-27822-3

The characters and the incidents in this book are entirely the product of the authors imagination and have no relation to any person, place, or event in real life.

For my wife MARGUERITE with all my love

It was so cold when they first came from the rocket into the night that Spender began to gather the dry Martian wood and build a small fire. He didnt say anything about a celebration; he merely gathered the wood, set fire to it, and watched it burn.

In the flare that lighted the thin air of this dried-up sea of Mars he looked over his shoulder and saw the rocket that had brought them all, Captain Wilder and Cheroke and Hathaway and Sam Parkhill and himself, across a silent black space of stars to land upon a dead, dreaming world.

Jeff Spender waited for the noise. He watched the other men and waited for them to jump around and shout. It would happen as soon as the numbness of being the first men to Mars wore off. None of them said anything, but many of them were hoping, perhaps, that the other expeditions had failed and that this, the Fourth, would be the one. They meant nothing evil by it. But they stood thinking it, nevertheless, thinking of the honor and fame, while their lungs became accustomed to the thinness of the atmosphere, which almost made you drunk if you moved too quickly.

Gibbs walked over to the freshly ignited fire and said, Why dont we use the ship chemical fire instead of that wood?

Never mind, said Spender, not looking up.

It wouldnt be right, the first night on Mars, to make a loud noise, to introduce a strange, silly bright thing like a stove. It would be a kind of imported blasphemy. Thered be time for that later; time to throw condensed-milk cans in the proud Martian canals; time for copies of the New York Times to blow and caper and rustle across the lone gray Martian sea bottoms; time for banana peels and picnic papers in the fluted, delicate ruins of the old Martian valley towns. Plenty of time for that. And he gave a small inward shiver at the thought.

He fed the fire by hand, and it was like an offering to a dead giant, They had landed on an immense tomb. Here a civilization had died. It was only simple courtesy that the first night be spent quietly.

This isnt my idea of a celebration. Gibbs turned to Captain Wilder. Sir, I thought we might break out rations of gin and meat and whoop it up a bit.

Captain Wilder looked off toward a dead city a mile away. Were all tired, he said remotely, as if his whole attention was on the city and his men forgotten. Tomorrow night, perhaps. Tonight we should be glad we got across all that space without getting a meteor in our bulkhead or having one man of us die.

The men shifted around. There were twenty of them, holding to each others shoulders or adjusting their belts. Spender watched them. They were not satisfied. They had risked their lives to do a big thing. Now they wanted to be shouting drunk, firing off guns to show how wonderful they were to have kicked a hole in space and ridden a rocket all the way to Mars.

But nobody was yelling.

The captain gave a quiet order. One of the men ran into the ship and brought forth food tins which were opened and dished out without much noise. The men were beginning to talk now. The captain sat down and recounted the trip to them. They already knew it all, but it was good to hear about it, as something over and done and safely put away. They would not talk about the return trip. Someone brought that up, but they told him to keep quiet. The spoons moved in the double moonlight; the food tasted good and the wine was even better.

There was a touch of fire across the sky, and an instant later the auxiliary rocket landed beyond the camp. Spender watched as the small port opened and Hathaway, the physician-geologistthey were all men of twofold ability, to conserve space on the tripstepped out. He walked slowly over to the captain.

Well? said Captain Wilder.

Hathaway gazed out at the distant cities twinkling in the starlight. After swallowing and focusing his eyes he said, That city there, Captain, is dead and has been dead a good many thousand years. That applies to those three cities in the hills also. But that fifth city, two hundred miles over, sir

What about it?

People were living in it last week, sir.

Spender got to his feet.

Martians, said Hathaway.

Where are they now?

Dead, said Hathaway. I went into a house on one street. I thought that it, like the other towns and houses, had been dead for centuries. My God, there were bodies there. It was like walking in a pile of autumn leaves. Like sticks and pieces of burnt newspaper, thats all. And fresh. Theyd been dead ten days at the outside.

Did you check other towns? Did you see anything alive?

Nothing whatever. So I went out to check the other towns. Four out of five have been empty for thousands of years. What happened to the original inhabitants I havent the faintest idea. But the fifth city always contained the same thing. Bodies. Thousands of bodies.

What did they die of? Spender moved forward.

You wont believe it.

What killed them?

Hathaway said simply, Chicken pox.

My God, no!

Yes. I made tests. Chicken pox. It did things to the Martians it never did to Earth Men. Their metabolism reacted differently, I suppose. Burnt them black and dried them out to brittle flakes. But its chicken pox, nevertheless. So York and Captain Williams and Captain Black must have got through to Mars, all three expeditions. God knows what happened to them. But we at least know what they unintentionally did to the Martians.

You saw no other life?

Chances are a few of the Martians, if they were smart, escaped to the mountains. But there arent enough, Ill lay you money, to be a native problem. This planet is through.

Spender turned and went to sit at the fire, looking into it. Chicken pox, God, chicken pox, think of it! A race builds itself for a million years, refines itself, erects cities like those out there, does everything it can to give itself respect and beauty, and then it dies. Part of it dies slowly, in its own time, before our age, with dignity. But the rest! Does the rest of Mars die of a disease with a fine name or a terrifying name or a majestic name? No, in the name of all thats holy, it has to be chicken pox, a childs disease, a disease that doesnt even kill children on Earth! Its not right and its not fair. Its like saying the Greeks died of mumps, or the proud Romans died on their beautiful hills of athletes foot! If only wed given the Martians time to arrange their death robes, lie down, look fit, and think up some other excuse for dying. It cant be a dirty, silly thing like chicken pox. It doesnt fit the architecture; it doesnt fit this entire world!

All right, Hathaway, get yourself some food.

Thank you, Captain.

And as quickly as that it was forgotten. The men talked among themselves.

Spender did not take his eyes off them. He left his food on his plate under his hands. He felt the land getting colder. The stars drew closer, very clear.

When anyone talked too loudly the captain would reply in a low voice that made them talk quietly from imitation.