Nine Rarities by Ray Bradbury, James Settles Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ray Bradbury, James Settles
wear tonight to that dance, what show to see. Oh, that was so long ago in the sanity of living, in the time before torpedoes crushed the hull of the USS Atlantic and took her down.
Richard, where are you now? Will you be here in a few minutes, Richard, with the convoy? Will you be thinking of us and the day we kissed goodbye in New York at the harbor, when I was on my way to nursing service in London? Will you remember how we kissed and held tight, and how you never saw me again?
I saw you, Richard. Three weeks ago. When you passed by on Destroyer 242, oblivious to me floating a few feet under the water!
If only we could be together. But I wouldn't want you to be like this, white and sodden and not alive. I want to keep you from all this, darling. And I shall. That's why I stay moving, I guess. Because I know I can help keep you living. We just killed a submarine, Richard. It won't have a chance to harm you. You'll have a chance to go to Britain, to do the things we wanted to do together.
There was a gentle movement in the water, and the old woman was at her side.
Alita's white shoulders jerked. "It —it was awful."
The old woman looked at the sun caught in the liquid. "It always is— this kind of death. It always has been —always will be as long as men are at war. We had to do it. We didn't take lives, we saved lives — hundreds of them."
Alita closed her eyes and opened them again. "I've been wondering about us. Why is it that just you and I and Conda and Helene and a few others survived the sinking. Why didn't some of the hundreds of others join us? What are we?"
The old woman moved her feet slowly, rippling currents.
"We're Guardians, that's what you'd call us. A thousand people drowned when the USS Atlantic went down, but twenty of us came out, half-dead, because we have somebody to guard. You have a lover on the convoy routes. I have four sons in the Navy. The others have similar obligations. Conda has sons too. And Helene—well, her lover was drowned inside the USS Atlantic and never came half-alive like us, so she's vindictive, motivated by a great vengeance. She can't ever really be killed.
"We all have a stake in the convoys that cross and recross the ocean. We're not the only ones. Maybe there are thousands of others who cannot and will not rest between here and England, breaking seams in German cargo boats, darkening Nazi periscopes and frightening German crewmen, sinking their gun-boats when the chance comes.
"But we're all the same. Our love for our husbands and sons and daughters and fathers makes us go on when we should be meat for fish, makes us go on being Guardians of the Convoy, gives us the ability to swim faster than any human ever swam while living, as fast as any fish ever swam. Invisible guardians nobody'll ever know about or appreciate. Our urge to do our bit was so great we wouldn't let dying put us out of action. . .
"I'm so tired, though," said Alita. "So very tired."
"When the war is over—we'll rest. In the meanwhile—"
"The convoy is coming!"
IT WAS Conda's deep, voice of authority. Used to giving captain's orders for years aboard the USS Atlantic , he appeared below them now, about a hundred yards away, striving up in the watered sunlight, his red hair aflame around his big-nosed, thick-lipped face. His beard was like so many living tentacles, writhing.
The convoy!
The Guardians stopped whatever they were doing and hung suspended like insects in some green primordial amber, listening to the deeps.
From far, far off it came: the voice of the convoy. First a dim note, a lazy drifting of sound, like trumpets blown into eternity and lost in the wind. A dim vibration of propellers beating water, a bulking of much weight on the sun-sparkled Atlantic tides.
The convoy!
Destroyers, cruisers, corvettes, and cargo ships. The great bulking convoy!
Richard! Richard! Are you with
Richard, where are you now? Will you be here in a few minutes, Richard, with the convoy? Will you be thinking of us and the day we kissed goodbye in New York at the harbor, when I was on my way to nursing service in London? Will you remember how we kissed and held tight, and how you never saw me again?
I saw you, Richard. Three weeks ago. When you passed by on Destroyer 242, oblivious to me floating a few feet under the water!
If only we could be together. But I wouldn't want you to be like this, white and sodden and not alive. I want to keep you from all this, darling. And I shall. That's why I stay moving, I guess. Because I know I can help keep you living. We just killed a submarine, Richard. It won't have a chance to harm you. You'll have a chance to go to Britain, to do the things we wanted to do together.
There was a gentle movement in the water, and the old woman was at her side.
Alita's white shoulders jerked. "It —it was awful."
The old woman looked at the sun caught in the liquid. "It always is— this kind of death. It always has been —always will be as long as men are at war. We had to do it. We didn't take lives, we saved lives — hundreds of them."
Alita closed her eyes and opened them again. "I've been wondering about us. Why is it that just you and I and Conda and Helene and a few others survived the sinking. Why didn't some of the hundreds of others join us? What are we?"
The old woman moved her feet slowly, rippling currents.
"We're Guardians, that's what you'd call us. A thousand people drowned when the USS Atlantic went down, but twenty of us came out, half-dead, because we have somebody to guard. You have a lover on the convoy routes. I have four sons in the Navy. The others have similar obligations. Conda has sons too. And Helene—well, her lover was drowned inside the USS Atlantic and never came half-alive like us, so she's vindictive, motivated by a great vengeance. She can't ever really be killed.
"We all have a stake in the convoys that cross and recross the ocean. We're not the only ones. Maybe there are thousands of others who cannot and will not rest between here and England, breaking seams in German cargo boats, darkening Nazi periscopes and frightening German crewmen, sinking their gun-boats when the chance comes.
"But we're all the same. Our love for our husbands and sons and daughters and fathers makes us go on when we should be meat for fish, makes us go on being Guardians of the Convoy, gives us the ability to swim faster than any human ever swam while living, as fast as any fish ever swam. Invisible guardians nobody'll ever know about or appreciate. Our urge to do our bit was so great we wouldn't let dying put us out of action. . .
"I'm so tired, though," said Alita. "So very tired."
"When the war is over—we'll rest. In the meanwhile—"
"The convoy is coming!"
IT WAS Conda's deep, voice of authority. Used to giving captain's orders for years aboard the USS Atlantic , he appeared below them now, about a hundred yards away, striving up in the watered sunlight, his red hair aflame around his big-nosed, thick-lipped face. His beard was like so many living tentacles, writhing.
The convoy!
The Guardians stopped whatever they were doing and hung suspended like insects in some green primordial amber, listening to the deeps.
From far, far off it came: the voice of the convoy. First a dim note, a lazy drifting of sound, like trumpets blown into eternity and lost in the wind. A dim vibration of propellers beating water, a bulking of much weight on the sun-sparkled Atlantic tides.
The convoy!
Destroyers, cruisers, corvettes, and cargo ships. The great bulking convoy!
Richard! Richard! Are you with
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