Ray Bradbury Stories Volume 1. Ray Bradbury

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       No Particular Night or Morning

      He had smoked a packet of cigarettes in two hours.

      ‘How far out in space are we?’

      ‘A billion miles.’

      ‘A billion miles from where?’ said Hitchcock.

      ‘It all depends,’ said Clemens, not smoking at all. ‘A billion miles from home, you might say.’

      ‘Then say it.’

      ‘Home. Earth. New York. Chicago. Wherever you were from.’

      ‘I don’t even remember,’ said Hitchcock. ‘I don’t even believe there is an Earth now, do you?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Clemens. ‘I dreamt about it this morning.’

      ‘There is no morning in space.’

      ‘During the night then.’

      ‘It’s always night,’ said Hitchcock quietly. ‘Which night do you mean?’

      ‘Shut up,’ said Clemens irritably. ‘Let me finish.’

      Hitchcock lit another cigarette. His hand did not shake, but it looked as if, inside the sunburned flesh, it might be tremoring all to itself, a small tremor in each hand and a large invisible tremor in his body. The two men sat on the observation corridor floor, looking out at the stars. Clemens’s eyes flashed, but Hitchcock’s eyes focused on nothing; they were blank and puzzled.

      ‘I woke up at 0500 hours myself,’ said Hitchcock, as if he were talking to his right hand. ‘And I heard myself screaming, “Where am I? where am I?” And the answer was “Nowhere!” And I said, “Where’ve I been?” And I said, “Earth!” “What’s Earth?” I wondered. “Where I was born,” I said. But it was nothing and worse than nothing. I don’t believe in anything I can’t see or hear or touch. I can’t see Earth, so why should I believe in it? It’s safer this way, not to believe.’

      ‘There’s Earth.’ Clemens pointed, smiling. ‘That point of light there.’

      ‘That’s not Earth; that’s our sun. You can’t see Earth from here.’

      ‘I can see it. I have a good memory.’

      ‘It’s not the same, you fool,’ said Hitchcock suddenly. There was a touch of anger in his voice. ‘I mean see it. I’ve always been that way. When I’m in Boston, New York is dead. When I’m in New York, Boston is dead. When I don’t see a man for a day, he’s dead. When he comes walking down the street, my God, it’s a resurrection. I do a dance, almost, I’m so glad to see him. I used to, anyway. I don’t dance any more. I just look. And when the man walks off, he’s dead again.’

      Clemens laughed. ‘It’s simply that your mind works on a primitive level. You can’t hold on to things. You’ve got no imagination. Hitchcock, old man. You’ve got to learn to hold on.’

      ‘Why should I hold on to things I can’t use?’ said Hitchcock, his eyes wide, still staring into space. ‘I’m practical. If Earth isn’t here for me to walk on, you want me to walk on a memory? That hurts. Memories, as my father once said, are porcupines. To hell with them! Stay away from them. They make you unhappy. They ruin your work. They make you cry.’

      ‘I’m walking on Earth right now,’ said Clemens, squinting to himself, blowing smoke.

      ‘You’re kicking porcupines. Later in the day you won’t be able to eat lunch, and you’ll wonder why,’ said Hitchcock in a dead voice. ‘And it’ll be because you’ve got a footful of quills aching in you. To hell with it! If I can’t drink it, pinch it, punch it, or lie on it, then I say drop it in the sun. I’m dead to Earth. It’s dead СКАЧАТЬ