Authors: Ray Bradbury
THE GOLDEN APPLES OF THE SUN
Strange, haunting, bizarre, grotesque, rooted in reality, soaring with imagination, alive with people who never were and creations that one day will be... Creatures and stories to set you shivering, gasping with terror, gaping with wonder...
Twenty-two weird stories of wonderfully improbable people, places and things...
"Nightmare novelties, imaginative sprees that in turn terrorize or tantalize the mind... Bradbury at his startling best!"
—The New York Times
Bantam Books by Ray Bradbury
Ask your bookseller for the books you have missed
THE GOLDEN APPLES OF THE SUN
THE ILLUSTRATED MAN
THE MACHINERIES OF JOY
THE MARTIAN CHRONICLES
A MEDICINE FOR MELANCHOLY
R IS FOR ROCKET
SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES
TIMELESS STORIES FOR TODAY AND TOMORROW
All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This low-priced Bantam Book has been completely reset in a type face designed for easy reading, and was printed from new plates. It contains the complete text of the original hard-cover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.
THE GOLDEN APPLES OF THE SUN
A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with
Doubleday & Company, Inc.
Doubleday edition published March 1953
2nd printing...... April 1953
Bantam edition published December 1954
New Bantam edition published November 1961
2nd printing .. November 1961
3rd printing.... March 1967
4th printing.... March 1967
5th printing .. December 1967
6th printing . September 1968
7th printing.... April 1969
8th printing .. September 1969
9th printing.... August 1970
Several of the stories in this book appeared originally in
THE NEW YORKER, MADEMOISELLE, AMERICAN MERCURY, CHARM, THE REPORTER, EPOCH, COLLIER'S
THE SATURDAY BVBNING POST.
The book title and the lines from "The Song of the Wandering Aengus" from
The Wind Among the Reeds,
by W. B, Yeats, are reprinted by permission of The Macmillan Company.
All rights reserved.
Copyright, 1952, 1953, by Ray Bradbury.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information address: Doubleday & Company, Inc.,
277 Park Avenue, New York, If.Y. 10017.
Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc., a National General company. Its trade-mark, consisting of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a bantam, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, Inc., 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10019.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
|1||The Fog Horn|
|3||The April Witch|
|5||The Fruit at the Bottom of the Bowl|
|7||The Flying Machine|
|9||The Golden Kite, The Silver Wind|
|10||I See You Never|
|12||The Big Black and White Game|
|13||A Sound of Thunder|
|14||The Great Wide World Over There|
|16||En La Noche|
|17||Sun and Shadow|
|19||The Garbage Collector|
|20||The Great Fire|
|21||Hail and Farewell|
|22||The Golden Apples of the Sun|
And this one, with love, is for Neva,
daughter of Glinda
the Good Witch of the South
... And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
W. B. YEATS
Copyright, 1951, by The Curtis Publishing Company.
Out there in the cold water, far from land, we waited every night for the coming of the fog, and it came, and we oiled the brass machinery and lit the fog light up in the stone tower. Feeling like two birds in the gray sky, McDunn and I sent the light touching out, red, then white, then red again, to eye the lonely ships. And if they did not see our light, then there was always our Voice, the great deep cry of our Fog Horn shuddering through the rags of mist to startle the gulls away like decks of scattered cards and make the waves turn high and foam.
"It's a lonely life, but you're used to it now, aren't you?" asked McDunn.
"Yes," I said. "You're a good talker, thank the Lord."
"Well, it's your turn on land tomorrow," he said, smiling, "to dance the ladies and drink gin."
"What do you think, McDunn, when I leave you out here alone?"
"On the mysteries of the sea." McDunn lit his pipe. It was a quarter past seven of a cold November evening, the heat on, the light switching its tail in two hundred directions, the Fog Horn bumbling in the high throat of the tower. There wasn't a town for a hundred miles down the coast, just a road which came lonely through dead country to the sea, with few cars on it, a stretch of two miles of cold water out to our rock, and rare few ships.
"The mysteries of the sea," said McDunn thoughtfully. "You know, the ocean's the biggest damned snowflake ever? It rolls and swells a thousand shapes and colors, no two alike. Strange. One night, years ago, I was here alone, when all of the fish of the sea surfaced out there. Something made them swim in and lie in the bay, sort of trembling and staring up at the tower light going red, white, red, white across them so I could see their funny eyes. I turned cold. They were like a big peacock's tail, moving out there until midnight. Then, without so much as a sound, they slipped away, the million of them was gone. I kind of think maybe, in some sort of way, they came all those miles to worship. Strange. But think how the tower must look to them, standing seventy feet above the water, the God-light flashing out from it, and the tower declaring itself with a monster voice. They never came back, those fish, but don't you think for a while they thought they were in the Presence?"
I shivered. I looked out at the long gray lawn of the sea stretching away into nothing and nowhere.
"Oh, the sea's full." McDunn puffed his pipe nervously, blinking. He had been nervous all day and hadn't said why. "For all our engines and so-called submarines, it'll be ten thousand centuries before we set foot on the real bottom of the sunken lands, in the fairy kingdoms there, and know
terror. Think of it, it's still the year 300,000 Before Christ down under there. While we've paraded around with trumpets, lopping off each other's countries and heads, they have been living beneath the sea twelve miles deep and cold in a time as old as the beard of a comet."
"Yes, it's an old world."
"Come on. I got something special I been saving up to tell you."
We ascended the eighty steps, talking and taking our time. At the top, McDunn switched off the room lights so there'd be no reflection in the plate glass. The great eye of the light was humming, turning easily in its oiled socket. The Fog Horn was blowing steadily, once every fifteen seconds.
"Sounds like an animal, don't it?" McDunn nodded to himself. "A big lonely animal crying in the night. Sitting here on the edge of ten billion years calling out to the Deeps, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here. And the Deeps do answer, yes, they do. You been here now for three months, Johnny, so I better prepare you. About this time of year," he said, studying the murk and fog, "something comes to visit the lighthouse."
"The swarms of fish like you said?"
"No, this is something else. I've put off telling you because you might think I'm daft. But tonight's the latest I can put it off, for if my calendar's marked right from last year, tonight's the night it comes. I won't go into detail, you'll have to see it yourself. Just sit down there. If you want, tomorrow you can pack your duffel and take the motorboat in to land and get your car parked there at the dinghy pier on the cape and drive on back to some little inland town and keep your lights burning nights, I won't question or blame you. It's happened three years now, and this is the only time anyone's been here with me to verify it. You wait and watch."
Half an hour passed with only a few whispers between us. When we grew tired waiting, McDunn began describing some of his ideas to me. He had some theories about the Fog Horn itself.
"One day many years ago a man walked along and stood in the sound of the ocean on a cold sunless shore and said, 'We need a voice to call across the water, to warn ships; I'll make one. I'll make a voice like all of time and all of the fog that ever was; I'll make a voice that is like an empty bed beside you all night long, and like an empty house when you open the door, and like trees in autumn with no leaves. A sound like the birds flying south, crying, and a sound like November wind and the sea on the hard, cold shore. I'll make a sound that's so alone that no one can miss it, that whoever hears it will weep in their souls, and hearths will seem warmer, and being inside will seem better to all who hear it in the distant towns. I'll make me a sound and an apparatus and they'll call it a Fog Horn and whoever hears it will know the sadness of eternity and the briefness of life.'"
The Fog Horn blew.
"I made up that story," said McDunn quietly, "to try to explain why this thing keeps coming back to the lighthouse every year. The Fog Horn calls it, I think, and it comes...."
"But—" I said.
"Sssst!" said McDunn. "There!" He nodded out to the Deeps.
Something was swimming toward the lighthouse tower.
It was a cold night, as I have said; the high tower was cold, the light coming and going, and the Fog Horn calling and calling through the raveling mist. You couldn't see far and you couldn't see plain, but there was the deep sea moving on its way about the night earth, flat and quiet, the color of gray mud, and here were the two of us alone in the high tower, and there, far out at first, was a ripple, followed by a wave, a rising, a bubble, a bit of froth. And then, from the surface of the cold sea came a head, a large head, dark-colored, with immense eyes, and then a neck. And then—not a body—but more neck and more! The head rose a full forty feet above the water on a slender and beautiful dark neck. Only then did the body, like a little island of black coral and shells and crayfish, drip up from the subterranean. There was a flicker of tail. In all, from head to tip of tail, I estimated the monster at ninety or a hundred feet.
I don't know what I said. I said something.
"Steady, boy, steady," whispered McDunn.
"It's impossible!" I said.
like it always was ten million years ago.
hasn't changed. It's
and the land that've changed, become impossible.
It swam slowly and with a great dark majesty out in the icy waters, far away. The fog came and went about it, momentarily erasing its shape. One of the monster eyes caught and held and flashed back our immense light, red, white, red, white, like a disk held high and sending a message in primeval code. It was as silent as the fog through which it swam.
"It's a dinosaur of some sort!" I crouched down, holding to the stair rail.
"Yes, one of the tribe."
"But they died out!"