A Sound of Thunder and Other Stories by Ray Bradbury
“Please, Lyte, go back!”
“And wait for Chion to return?” she said. “He plans that when you die I will be his mate.” She shook out her unbelievable blue-white curls of hair defiantly. “But I’ll be with you. If you fall, I fall.”
Sim’s face hardened. He was tall. The world had shrunk during the night. Children packs screamed by hilarious in their food-searching and he looked at them with alien wonder: could it be only four days ago he’d been like these? Strange. There was a sense of many days in his mind, as if he’d really lived a thousand days. There was a dimension of incident and thought so thick, so multicolored, so richly diverse in his head that it was not to be believed so much could happen in so short a time.
The fighting men ran in clusters of two or three. Sim looked ahead at the rising line of small ebon cliffs. This, then, he said to himself, is my fourth day. And still I am no closer to the Ship, or to anything, not even—he heard the light tread of Lyte beside him—not even to her who bears my weapons and picks me ripe berries.
One-half of his life was gone. Or a third of it—If he won this battle. If.
He ran easily, lifting, letting fall his legs. This is the day of my physical awareness, as I run I feed, as I feed I grow and as I grow I turn eyes to Lyte with a kind of dizzying vertigo. And she looks upon me with the same gentleness of thought. This is the day of our youth. Are we wasting it? Are we losing it on a dream, a folly?
Distantly he heard laughter. As a child he’d questioned it. Now he understood laughter. This particular laughter was made of climbing high rocks and plucking the greenest blades and drinking the headiest vintage from the morning ices and eating of the rock-fruits and tasting of young lips in new appetite.
They neared the cliffs of the enemy.
He saw the slender erectness of Lyte. The new surprise of her neck where if you touched you could time her pulse; the fingers which cupped in your own were animate and supple and never still; the …
Lyte snapped her head to one side. “Look ahead!” she cried. “See what is to come—look only ahead.”
He felt that they were racing by part of their lives, leaving their youth on the pathside, without so much as a glance.
“I am blind with looking at stones,” he said, running.
“Find new stones, then!”
“I see stones—” His voice grew gentle as the palm of her hand. The landscape floated under him. Everything was like a fine wind, blowing dreamily. “I see stones that make a ravine that lies in a cool shadow where the stone-berries are thick as tears. You touch a boulder and the berries fall in silent red avalanches, and the grass is very tender … ”
“I do not see it!’ She increased her pace, turning her head away.
He saw the floss upon her neck, like the small moss that grows silvery and light on the cool side of pebbles, that stirs if you breathe the lightest breath upon it. He looked upon himself, his hands clenched as he heaved himself forward toward death. Already his hands were veined and youth-swollen.
Lyte handed him food to eat.
“I am not hungry,” he said.
“Eat, keep your mouth full,” she commanded sharply, “so you will be strong for battle.”
“Gods!” He roared, anguished. “Who cares for battles!”
Ahead of them, rocks hailed down, thudding. A man fell with his skull split wide. The war was begun.
Lyte passed the weapons to him. They ran without another word until they entered the killing ground.
The boulders began to roll in a synthetic avalanche from the battlements of the enemy!
Only one thought was in his mind now. To kill, to lessen the life of someone else so he could live, to gain a foothold here and live long enough to make a stab at the ship. He ducked, he weaved, he clutched stones and hurled them up. His left hand held a flat stone shield with which he diverted the swiftly plummeting rocks. There was a spatting sound everywhere. Lyte ran with him, encouraging him. Two men dropped before him, slain, their breasts cleaved to the bone, their blood springing out in unbelievable founts.
It was a useless conflict. Sim realized instantly how insane the venture was. They could never storm the cliff. A solid wall of rocks rained down. A dozen men dropped with shards of ebony in their brains, a half dozen more showed drooping, broken arms. One screamed and the upthrust white joint of his knee was exposed as the flesh was pulled away by two successive blows of well-aimed granite. Men stumbled over one another.
The muscles in his cheeks pulled tight and he began to wonder why he had ever come. But his raised eyes, as he danced from side to side, weaving and bobbing, sought always the cliffs. He wanted to live there so intensely, to have his chance. He would have to stick it out. But the heart was gone from him.
Lyte screamed piercingly. Sim, his heart panicking, twisted and saw that her hand was loose at the wrist, with an ugly wound bleeding profusely on the back of the knuckles. She clamped it under her armpit to soothe the pain. The anger rose in him and exploded. In his fury he raced forward, throwing his missiles with deadly accuracy. He saw a man topple and flail down, falling from one level to another of the caves, a victim of his shot. He must have been screaming, for his lungs were bursting open and closed and his throat was raw, and the ground spun madly under his racing feet.
The stone that clipped his head sent him reeling and plunging back. He ate sand. The universe dissolved into purple whorls. He could not get up. He lay and knew that this was his last day, his last time. The battle raged around him, dimly he felt Lyte over him. Her hands cooled his head, she tried to drag him out of range, but he lay gasping and telling her to leave him.
“Stop!” shouted a voice. The whole war seemed to give pause. “Retreat!” commanded the voice swiftly. And as Sim watched, lying upon his side, him comrades turned and fled toward home.
“The sun is coming, our time is up!” He saw their muscled backs, their moving, tensing, flickering legs go up and down. The dead were left upon the field. The wounded cried for help. But there was no time for the wounded. There was only time for swift men to run the gauntlet home and, their lungs aching and raw with heated air, burst into their tunnels before the sun burnt and killed them.
The sun!
Sim saw another figure racing toward him. It was Chion! Lyte was helping Sim to his feet, whispering helpfully to him. “Can you walk?” she asked. And he groaned and said, “I think so.” “Walk then,” she said. “Walk slowly, and then faster and faster. We’ll make it, I know we will.”
Sim got to his feet, stood swaying. Chion raced up, a strange expression cutting lines in his cheeks, his eyes shining with battle. Pushing Lyte abruptly aside he seized upon a rock and dealt Sim a jolting blow upon his ankle that laid wide the flesh. All of this was done quite silently.
Now he stood back, still not speaking, grinning like an animal from the night mountains, his chest panting in and out, looking from the thing he had done, to Lyte, and back. He got his breath. “He’ll never make it,” he nodded at Sim. “We’ll have to leave him here. Come along, Lyte.”
Lyte, like a cat-animal, sprang upon Chion, searching for his eyes, shrieking through her exposed, hard-pressed teeth. Her fingers stroked great bloody furrows down Chion’s arms and again, instantly, down his neck. Chion, with an oath, sprang away from her. She hurled a rock at him. Grunting, he let it miss him, then ran off a few yards. “Fool!” he cried, turning to scorn her. “Come along with me. Sim will be dead in a few minutes. Come along!”
Lyte turned her back on him. “I will go if you carry me.”
Chion’s face changed. His eyes lost their gleaming. “There is no time. We would both die if I carried you.”
Lyte looked through and beyond him. “Carry me, then, for that’s how I wish it to be.”
Without another word, glancing fearfully at the sun, Chion fled. His footsteps sped away and vanished from hearing. “May he fall and break his neck,” whispered Lyte, savagely glaring at his form as it skirted a ravine. She returne
Agonies of pain shot up his leg from the wounded ankle. He nodded ironically. “We could make it to the cave in two hours, walking. I have an idea, Lyte. Carry me.” And he smiled with the grim joke.
She took his arm. “Nevertheless we’ll walk. Come.”
“No,” he said. “We’re staying here.”
“But why?”
“We came to seek a home here. If we walk we will die. I would rather die here. How much time have we?”
Together they measured the sun. “A few minutes,” she said, her voice flat and dull. She held close to him.
The black rocks of the cliff were paling into deep purples and browns as the sun began to flood the world.
What a fool he was! He should have stayed and worked with Dienc, and thought and dreamed.
With the sinews of his neck standing out defiantly he bellowed upward at the cliff holes.
“Send me down one man to do battle!”
Silence. His voice echoed from the cliff. The air was warm.
“It’s no use,” said Lyte. “They’ll pay no attention.”
He shouted again. “Hear me!” He stood with his weight on his good foot, his injured left leg throbbing and pulsating with pain. He shook a fist. “Send down a warrior who is no coward! I will not turn and run home! I have come to fight a fair fight! Send a man who will fight for the right to his cave! Him I will surely kill!”
More silence. A wave of heat passed over the land, receded.
“Oh, surely,” mocked Sim, hands on naked hips, head back, mouth wide, “surely there’s one among you not afraid to fight a cripple!” Silence. “No?” Silence.
“Then I have miscalculated you. I’m wrong. I’ll stand here, then, until the sun shucks the flesh off my bone in black scraps, and call you the filthy names you deserve.”
He got an answer.
“I do not like being called names,” replied a man’s voice. Sim leaned forward, forgetting his crippled foot.
A huge man appeared in a cave mouth on the third level.
“Come down,” urged Sim. “Come down, fat one, and kill me.”
The man scowled seriously at his opponent a moment, then lumbered slowly down the path, his hands empty of any weapons. Immediately every cave above clustered with heads. An audience for this drama.
The man approached Sim. “We will fight by the rules, if you know them.”
“I’ll learn as we go,” replied Sim.
This pleased the man and he looked at Sim warily, but not unkindly. “This much I will tell you,” offered the man generously. “If you die, I will give your mate shelter and she will live as she pleases, because she is the wife of a good man.”
Sim nodded swiftly. “I am ready,” he said.
“The rules are simple. We do not touch each other, save with stones. The stones and the sun will do either of us in. Now is the time—”
VIII
A tip of the sun showed on the horizon. “My name is Nhoj,” said Sim’s enemy, casually taking up a handful of pebbles and stones, weighing them. Sim did likewise. He was hungry. He had not eaten for many minutes. Hunger was the curse of this planet’s peoples—a perpetual demanding of empty stomachs for more, more food. His blood flushed weakly, shot tinglingly through veins in jolting throbs of heat and pressure, his rib cage shoved out, went in, shoved out again, impatiently.
“Now!” roared the three hundred watchers from the cliffs. “Now!” they clamored, the men and women and children balanced, in turmoil on the ledges. “Now! Begin!”
As if at a cue, the sun arose. It smote them a blow as with a flat, sizzling stone. The two men staggered under the molten impact, sweat broke from their naked thighs and loins, under their arms and on their faces was a glaze like fine glass.
Nhoj shifted his huge weight and looked at the sun as if in no hurry to fight. Then, silently, with no warning, he snapped out a pebble with a startling trigger-flick of thumb and forefinger. It caught Sim flat on the cheek, staggered him back, so that a rocket of unbearable pain climbed up his crippled foot and burst into nervous explosion at the pit of his stomach. He tasted blood from his bleeding cheek.
Nhoj moved serenely. Three more flicks of his magical hands and three tiny, seemingly harmless bits of stone flew like whistling birds. Each of them fond a target, slammed it. The nerve centers of Sim’s body! One hit his stomach so that ten hours’ eating almost slid up his throat. A second got his forehead, a third his neck. He collapsed to the boiling sand. His knee made a wrenching sound on the hard earth. His face was colorless and his eyes, squeezed tight, were pushing tears out from the hot, quivering lids. But even as he had fallen he had let loose, with wild force, his handful of stones!
The stones purred in the air. One of them, and only one, struck Nhoj. Upon the left eyeball. Nhoj moaned and laid his hands in the next instant to his shattered eye.
Sim choked out a bitter, sighing laugh. This much triumph he had. The eye of his opponent. It would give him … Time. Oh, gods, he thought, his stomach retching sickly, fighting for breath, this is a world of time. Give me a little more, just a trifle!
Nhoj, one-eyed, weaving with pain, pelted the writhing body of Sim, but his aim was off now, the stones flew to one side or if they struck at all they were weak and spent and lifeless.
Sim forced himself half erect. From the corners of his eyes he saw Lyte, waiting, staring at him, her lips breathing words of encouragement and hope. He was bathed in sweat, as if a rain spray had showered him down.
The sun was now fully over the horizon. You could smell it. Stones glinted like mirrors, the sand began to roil and bubble. Illusions sprang up everywhere in the valley. Instead of one warrior Nhoj he was confronted by a dozen, each in an upright position, preparing to launch another missile. A dozen irregular warriors who shimmered in the golden menace of day, like bronze gongs smitten, quivered in one vision!
Sim was breathing desperately. His nostrils flared and sucked and his mouth drank thirstily of flame instead of oxygen. His lungs took fire like silk torches and his body was consumed. The sweat spilled from his pores to be instantly evaporated. He felt himself shriveling, shriveling in on himself, he imagined himself looking like his father, old, sunken, slight, withered! Where was the sand? Could he move? Yes. The world wriggled under him, but now he was on his feet.
There would be no more fighting.
A murmur from the cliff told this. The sunburnt faces of the high audience gaped and jeered and shouted encouragement to their warrior. “Strand straight, Nhoj, save your strength now! Stand tall and perspire!” they urged him, and Nhoj stood, swaying lightly, swaying slowly, a pendulum in an incandescent fiery breath from the skyline. “Don’t move, Nhoj, save your heart, save your power!”
“The Test, The Test!” said the people on the heights. “The test of the sun.”
And this was the worst part of the fight. Sim squinted painfully at the distorted illusion of cliff. He thought he saw his parents; father with his defeated face, his green eyes burning, mother with her hair blowing like a cloud of gray smoke in the fire wind. He must get up to them, live for and with them!
Behind him, Sim heard Lyte whimper softly. There was a whisper of flesh against sand. She had fallen. He did not dare turn. The strength of turning would bring him thundering down in pain and darkness.
His knees bent. If I fall, he thought, I’ll lie here and become ashes. Where was Nhoj? Nhoj was there, a few yards from him, standing bent, slick with perspiration, looking as if he were being hit over the spine with great hammers of destruction.
“Fall, Nhoj! Fall!” thought Sim. “Fall, fall! Fall so I can take your place!”
But Nhoj did not fall. One by one the pebbles in his half-loose left hand plummeted to the broiling sand and Nhoj’s lips peeled back, the saliva burned away from his lips and his eyes glazed. But he did not fall. The will to live was strong in him. He hung as if by a wire.
Sim fell to one knee!
“Ahh!”
“Now,” muttered Sim, sluggishly, with a thick, baked tongue between his blazing teeth. “Now I’ll fall and lie and dream.” He said it with slow, thoughtful pleasure. He planned it. He knew how it must be done. He would do it accurately. He lifted his head to see if the audience was watching.
They were gone!
The sun had driven them back in. All save one or two brave ones. Sim laughed drunkenly and watched the sweat gather on his dead hands, hesitate, drop off, plunge down toward sand and turn to steam halfway there.
Nhoj fell.
The wire was cut. Nhoj fell flat upon his stomach, a gout of blood kicked from his mouth. His eyes rolled back into a white, senseless insanity.
Nhoj fell. So did his fifty duplicate illusions.
All across the valley the winds sang and moaned and Sim saw a blue lake with a blue river feeding it and low white houses near the river with people going and coming in the houses and among the tall green trees. Trees taller than seven men, beside the river mirage.
“Now,” explained Sim to himself at last, “Now I can fall. Right—into—that—lake.”
He fell forward.
He was shocked when he felt the hands eagerly stop him in mid-plunge, lift him, hurry him off, high in the hungry air, like a torch held and waved, ablaze.
“How strange is death,” he thought, and blackness took him.
He wakened to the flow of cool water on his cheeks.
He opened his eyes fearfully. Lyte held his head upon her lap, her fingers were moving food to his mouth. He was tremendously hungry and tired, but fear squeezed both of these things away. He struggled upward, seeing the strange cave contours overhead.