7

The RayBradbury Chronicles 7

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e-ISBN 1-59019-871-9Library of Congress Cataloging- in- Publication Data

Bradbury, Ray. 1920-The Ray Bradbury Chronicles / Ray Bradbury.

ISBN 0-552 35127-31. Bradbury, Ray. 1920—Adaptations. 2. Science ction comic books, strips, etc.

3. Horror comic books, strips, etc. I. Title. PN6727. B7R38 1992 741.5’973 92-2979

All rights reserved© 1992 Byron Preiss Visual Publications, Inc.

Cover art Copyright © 1992 by Timothy Truman and Steve Fastnerand Byron Preiss Visual Publications, Inc.

Cover painting by Timothy Truman and Steve Fastner.Introductions to all stories are © 1992 Ray Bradbury.

There Will Come Soft Rains © 1950Ray Bradbury —Illustrations © 1992 Lebbeus Woods and Byron Preiss Visual

Publications, Inc. —The lines from “There Will Come Soft Rains” from Flame andShadow, by Sara Teasdale, are © 1920, 1948 The Macmillan Company.

Homecoming © 1946 Ray Bradbury —Illustrations © 1992 Steve Leialoha and Byron Preiss Visual Publications, Inc. There Will Come Soft Rains © 1950 Ray

Bradbury © renewed 1980 William M. Gaines, Agent.

V O L U M E S E V E N

CHRONICLES

4Homecoming

By Steve Leialoha

23There Will Come Soft Rains

By Lebbeus Woods

34There Will Come Soft Rains

By Wally Wood

4

Adapted by S teve Le ia loha

HOMECOMING

I grew up in a small town in Northern Illinois where, for

my family anyway, Halloween was just as good if not better than

Christmas. My aunts and uncles and my grandmother flung

themselves into the October ritual in a flurry of broomsticks and

candlewax. My favorite aunt, Neva, flivvered me out into the

farmlands to harvest cornstalks and pumpkins. We gathered in

various kitchens [three Bradbury families lived on one block] to

pull taffy, cut pumpkin faces, and prepare my grandparents’

house for the influx of neighbors and school chums. Bobbing

for apples without drowning in the washtub was mandatory. The

grand finale of the night was passing the cut-up parts of a

witch from hand to hand in a dark room. “Here’s her heart,

here’s her gizzard, here’s her brain!” All that good stuff. As you

can see, it was a grand and jolly time for me, growing up and liv-

ing with every Halloween until I was 14. It was only natural, in

my twenties, that I would remember my glorious family and their

All Hallows’ festivities and trap them all, with their real names,

in my celebratory tale HOMECOMING. If my family had not

existed, the following long-after-sunset adventure could

never have been born.

5

here they come... where?

Some are overEurope...

Some overAsia..

the islands..

South America…

who are they?

Uncle Einar ad Uncle Fry and there’s Cousin William

I see Frulda and Helgar and...

Aunt Morgiana Cousin Vivianand I see Uncle Johann!

They’re all coming fast!

are they up in the sky?

They’re comingthrough the air and traveling along the ground...

in many forms

I see a wolf like thingcoming over a dark river, the starlight shining up his pelt…

an oakleaf blowingfar up in the sky...

.. a small bat flying

I see many thingsand they’re ALL coming

this way!

Will they behere by tomorrow

night?

Will they all be herein time for the

HOMECOMING?Yes, yes Timothy

yes! Ask no more of me.

Go away now.

Let me travel in the places I like

the best…

Thanks,

Cecy.TIMOTHY HAD JUST AWAKENED, AND AS THE FIRST STARTS HAD RISEN, HAD GONE TO LET HIS EXCITEMENT ABOUT THE PARTY RUN WITH CECY.

NOW SHE SLEPT SO QUIETLYTHERE WAS NOT A SOUND.

Just thinkSpid, tomorrow

night is Allhallows

Eve!

HIS WAS THE ONLY MIRROR ALLOWEDIN THE HOUSE.

IT WAS HIS MOTHER’SCONCESSION TO HIS ILLNESS.

HE SURVEYED THE POOR INADEQUATE TEETHNATURE HAD GIVEN HIM -- ROUND, SOFT AND PALE IN HIS JAWS…

OH IF ONLYHE WERE NOTSO AFFLICTED!

SOME OF THE HIGH SPIRITDIED IN HIM.

Spid, I’m no good.

I can’t evenget used to

sleeping dayslike the others.

SLEEPING BY DAY, ROUSING ATSUNSET, THE WHOLE FAMILY LIVEDIN THE FASHION OF THE OLD COUNTRY.

OH, TO HAVE STRONG TEETH WITHINCISORS LIKE STEEL SPIKES, ORSTRONG HANDS, EVEN, OR A STRONGMIND. TO SEND ONE’S MIND OUT, FREE, AS CECY DID.

BUT NO, HE WAS THEIMPERFECT ONE..

THE SICK ONE.

HE WAS EVEN— AFRAID OF THE DARK!

NO WONDER THE FAMILY SKIRTEDHIM LIKE A HOLY MAN’S CRUCIFIX

IF ONLY WINGS WOULDSPROUT FROM HISSHOULDER BLADES…

NO CHANCE.

Sigh

NEVER.

DOWNSTAIRS WERE EXCITINGAND MYSTERIOUS SOUNDS,THE BLACK CREPE GOINGUP IN ALL THE HALLS…

I’ve just got to goto the party, Spid.

TIMOTHY FELT ALONE The Homecoming, The Homecoming!

THE LESS SEEN OR SAID OF THEIMPERFECT SON, THE BETTER.

CECY WAS SLEEPING QUIETLY. ONCEA MONTH SHE WENT BELOWSTAIRS.ALWAYS SHE STAYED IN BED.

LOVELY CECY where areyou now Cecy.. and in who?

and what’s happening? are you beyond the hills? and what goes on there?

BUT HE WENT ON TO ELLEN’S ROOM INSTEAD…

ELLEN SAT SORTING OUT THE HAIR ANDSCIMITARS OF FINGERNAIL GATHEREDFROM HER JOB AT THE MELLIN VILLAGEBEAUTY PARLOR… GO AWAY!I CAN’T WORK WITH YOU GAWKING.

AllhallowsEve, Ellen,just think!

hunh

WHAT CAN IT MEANTO YOU? WHAT DOYOU KNOW OF IT?

IT’LL SCARE THEHELL OUT OF YOU.

GO BACKTO BED.

I’m needed to polish and work and help serve.

GOOD.BY,TIMOTHY.

WATCH WHEREYOU’RE GOING!

FATHER?

IT’S ABOUT TIME.HURRY DOWN ORTHEY’LL BE HEREBEFORE WE’RE

READY!

TIMOTHY HESITATED ONLY LONGENOUGH TO HEAR THE MILLIONOTHER SOUNDS IN THE HOUSE.

BROTHERS CAMEAND WENT LIKETRAINS IN A STATIONTALKING AND ARGUING

IF YOU STOOD IN ONE SPOT LONG ENOUGH THEENTIRE HOUSEHOLD PASSED WITH THEIR PALEHANDS FULL OF THINGS...

COME ON, SHINETHIS UP SO WE CANSTART ON ANOTHER.

Uncle Einar’s a bigman, isn’t he, papa?

UNH

How big is he?

THE SIZE OFTHE BOX’LLTELL YOU.

I was onlyasking…

Sevenfeettall?

YOU TALKA LOT.

ABOUT NINE O’CLOCK TIMOTHY WENTOUT INTO THE OCTOBER WEATHER. FOR TWO HOURS HE WALKED THE MEADOWS COLLECTING TOADSTOOLS AND SPIDERS.

HIS HEART BEGAN TO BEATWITH ANTICIPATION AGAIN.

HOW MANY RELATIVES HADMOTHER SAID WOULD COME?

SEVENTY?

ONE HUNDRED?

If only youknew what washappening atour house..

MILES AWAY, SETTLING INTO SLEEP,THE TOWN DID NOT KNOW EITHER..

ALL THE CHILDREN WEREGATHERED EXCEPT CECY, WHOLAY UPSTAIRS, IN BED.

BUT CECY WAS PRESENT. YOU SAWHER PEERING NOW FROM BION’SEYES..

NOW SAMUEL’S..

NOW MOTHER’S..

YOU FELT A MOVEMENT AND NOWSHE WAS IN YOU, FLEETINGLY..

AND GONE.AND TIMOTHY…

If only I couldmake people fall in

love with me as Lauradoes with people…

or even raise a family,as mother and father

have done.

AT MIDNIGHT…

..IN TROOPEDGRANDMAMA

ANDGRANDPAPAALL THE WAY

FROM THEOLD

COUNTRY.

FROM THEN ON PEOPLE ARRIVED EACH HOUR...MOTHER FILLED THELARGE CRYSTAL PUNCHBOWL FROM THE JUGSBION HAD CARRIEDHOME..

FATHER SWEPTFROM ROOM TOROOM LIGHTINGMORE TAPERS.

AND TIMOTHY STOOD AMIDSTTHIS WILD EXCITEMENT, HANDSTREMBLING, GAZING NOWHERE, NOW THERE...

DARKNESS, SOUND OFWIND, THE WEBBEDTHUNDER OF WINGS..

THE PADDING OF FEET...

THE WELCOMING BURSTSOF TALK AT ENTRANCES.. THE SHADOWS

PASSING, COMING,GOING, WAVERING.

WELL, WELL AND THISMUST BE TIMOTHY! A GOOD LAD, A

FINE LAD!what?

Timothy,this isUncleJason.

HelloUncleJason.

and over here…

TIMOTHYSTOODALONE.

FROM OFF A THOUSANDMILES IN THE DARKNESSHE HEARD A HIGH VOICE; THAT WAS ELLEN– … AND MY BROTHERS, THEY ARE CLEVER.

CAN YOU GUESS THEIR OCCUPATIONS AUNT MORGIANA?

I haveno idea.

THEY OPERATETHE UNDERTAKINGESTABLISHMENT

IN TOWN.

what?

YES!

ISN’T THATPRICELESS!

TIMOTHY IS AFRAID OF

THEY BRING HOME SUSTENANCEFOR MAMA AND PAPA AND ALLOF US... EXCEPT, OF COURSE, TIMOTHY!

WELL? COMENOW. WHATABOUT TIMOTHY?

Oh, Laura, your tongue.

LAURA WENT ON WITH IT...

TIMOTHY DOESN’T.. WELL.. DOESN’T LIKE BLOOD!

HE’S DELICATE.

he’lllearn.

he’s my son andhe’ll learn. He’sonly fourteen.

BUT I WAS RAISED ON THE

STUFF..

UNCLE JASON..

HIS VOICE PASSINGFROM ONE ROOMON INTO ANOTHER..

PASSING AWAYINTO FAINTNESS.

Well it’s all my fault..I tried forcing him. you can’t force children, you only make them sick, and they never get a taste for things.

I UNDERSTAND.TIMOTHY WILLCOME AROUND.

I’m sure he will.

TIMOTHY WASCOLD. HE SMELLEDTHE HOT TALLOW

AND INSTINCTIVELYGRABBED AT A CANDLE AND

WALKED AROUNDAND ABOUT THE

HOUSE PRETENDINGTO STRAIGHTEN

THE CREPE.

HATEFUL LEONARD!

T I M OT H Y. . .

THE DARK. . .

I like the candlethat’s all

CASCADES OF ROARING LAUGHTER.

MORE LIGHTNING,

MORETHUNDER

CLAMMY FOGSWEPT THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR...

LEONARD’S VOICE.

UncleEinar!

YOU’VE WINGS, TIMOTHY!

TIMOTHY FELTBREEZELIKEFACES WHEELEDUNDER HIM.

DARKNESS ROTATED.THE HOUSE BLEW AWAY.

WINGS,TIMOTHY!

FLY!

HE FELT AN EXQUISITEECSTACY IN HIS SHOULDERBLADES...

FLY,TIMOTHY!

FLY WITHWINGS!

WINGS!

AS IF ROOTS GREW,BURST TO EXPLODEAND BLOSSOM INTONEW MOIST MEMBRANE

HE BABBLED WILDSTUFF; AGAIN EINAR HURLED HIM HIGH.

THE AUTUMN WINDBROKE IN A TIDEON THE HOUSE, RAIN CRASHED DOWN...

AND THE ONE HUNDREDRELATIVES PEERED OUT FROM EVERY BLACKENCHANTED ROOM...

CIRCLING INWARDALL SHAPES AND SIZES...

TO WHERE EINAR BALANCED THE CHILD LIKEA BATON IN THE ROARING SPACES.

ENOUGH!

WAS IT GOODFLYING? Eh,TIMOTHY?

Uncle.Uncle.

GOOD.GOOD

Uncle.

IT WAS COMING TOWARD DAWN.MOST HAD ARRIVED AND WEREREADY TO BED DOWN FORTHE DAYLIGHT...

UNTIL THE FOLLOWING SUNSET WHEN THEYWOULD SHOUT OUT OFTHEIR MAHOGANY BOXESFOR THE REVELRY.

UNCLE EINAR, FOLLOWED BYDOZENS OF OTHERS,

MOVED TOWARD THE CELLAR.

MOTHER DIRECTED THEM DOWN TOTHE CROWDED ROW ON ROWOF POLISHED BOXES.

EINAR MOVED WITH A CURIOUS WHISTLINGDOWN THE PASSAGEWAY; WHERE HIS WINGS TOUCHED THEY MADE THE SOUND OF DRUMHEADS GENTLY BEATEN.

UPSTAIRS, TIMOTHYLAY TRYING TO LIKE

THE DARKNESS.

HE DID LIKE THE NIGHT. BUTIT WAS A QUALIFIED LIKING... SOMETIMES

THERE WAS SO MUCHNIGHT HE

CRIED OUTIN

REBELLION.

IN THE CELLAR,MAHOGANY DOORSSEALED DOWNWARD,DRAWN IN BY PALEHANDS.

IN CORNERSCERTAIN RELATIVES

CIRCLED THREETIMES TO LIE,

HEADS ON PAWSEYELIDS SHUT.

THE SUN ROSE. THERE WASSLEEPING.

SUNSET THE REVEL EXPLODED LIKEA BATNEST STRUCK FULL,SHRIEKING OUT, FLUTTERING,SPREADING.

BOX DOORS BANGEDWIDE. STEPS

RUSHED UP FROMCELLAR DAMP.

MORE LATE GUESTS, KICKING ONFRONT AND BACK PORTALS WEREADMITTED...

THE LAUGHTER OF ONE COUSIN SHOT FROMONE ROOM..

ANGLED OFF

THE WALL OF

ANOTHER...

I KNOW YOU, NIECELEIBERSROUTER!

RICOCHETED, BANKED ANDRETURNED TO TIMOTHY’SEARS FROM A FOURTH ROOM,ACCURATE AND CYNICAL.

SOMETHING HUDDLED AGAINSTTHE KITCHEN WINDOW. IT SIGHED AND WEPT AND TAPPEDCONTINUALLY...

IN IMAGINATION HE WAS OUTSIDE...

BUT TIMOTHY SAW NOTHING.

STARING IN...

THE DARKNESS INSIDEWAS INVITING...

TIMOTHY SHIVERED.

HE WAS INSIDE THE HOUSE AGAIN. MOTHER WASCALLING HIM...

RUNHERE,RUN

THERE.

HELP SERVE,OUT TO THE KITCHEN NOW...

FETCH THIS,FETCH THAT..

BRING THE PLATES.HEAP THE FOOD...

ON AND ON...

THE PARTY HAPPENED AROUND HIM BUT NOTTO HIM.

THE DOZENS OF PEOPLE IGNOREDHIM.

FINALLY HE TURNED ANDSLIPPED AWAY UP THE STAIRS.

Cecy

Whereare you now,Cecy?

...in the Imperial Valley... besides the Salton Sea.. near the mud pots..

and the stream and the quiet...

I’m in a farmer’s wife. I’m sitting on a front porch... I can make her move if I want or do anything...

or think anything.

What’s it like, Cecy?

you can hear the mud pots hissing..

and there is a smell of deep sulphurous burning and old time...

The dinosaur has been abroiling here ten million years.

is he done yet, Cecy? yes, he’s done. quite done.

Inside this woman’s skull I am,looking out, watching the sea that does not move...

and is so quiet it makes you afraid.

I sit on the porch andwait for my husband to

come home.

What now,Cecy?

I’m getting up from my rocking chair.

How long will youstay inside her. Cecy?

Until I’ve listened and looked and left enough.

Until I’ve changed her life some way...

my feet knock on the planks...

tiredly...

.. slowly..

now the sulphur fumes are all around me..

suddenly I’m in a bird.

and fly away.

I keep flying...

circle back..

I see a hand wriggle and disappear into the pool...

now I’m flying home..

Swif t-- -

Swi f t - -

now I’m home!

The Homecoming’s on and everybody’s here!

Then why are you upstairs?

Well, ask me what you came to ask.

I didn’t come toask anything...

well almost nothing..

well...

oh, Cecy!

I want to do somethingat the party to make them look at me...

Something to make me good as them...

Something to make me belong. but there’s nothing I can do and I feel funny and..

well...

I thought you...

might..

I might. stand up straight.

stand very still.

now shut your eyes and blank out your thought.

shall we go downstairs now, Timothy?

LIKE A HAND INTO A GLOVE, CECY WAS WITHIN HIM...

Look everybody!

Swi f t–- . .

HE WHISPERED TO SISTERLAURA IN A SUBTLE VOICETHAT KEPT HER SILENT...

FROZEN...

HE FELT TALL AS THE TREESAS HE WALKED TO HER.

THE PARTY NOW SLOWED. IT WAITEDON ALL SIDES OF HIM, WATCHING.

FROM ALL THE ROOM DOORS THE FACES PEERED.

THEY WERENOT

LAUGHING.

THE WIND CLIMBEDAROUNDON THEROOF

OUTSIDE.

MOTHER WAS ASTONISHED, DAD WAS PLEASEDAND GETTING PROUDER EVERY INSTANT.

STOP,TIMOTHY!

L o o k Un c l e E i n a r !

I can fly

at last!

HEY!

HALFWAY DOWN, THE WINGS HE THOUGHT HE OWNED...

...DISSOLVED!This is Cecy!This is Cecy!

Come see me,all of you,Upstairs..

First room onthe left, Ha HaHaHaHaHa

AS THE RELATIVES FLOWED TOWARDSCECY’S ROOM TO CONGRATULATE HER...

Cecy, I hate you!

I hate you...

FROM THE PROTECTION OF THE MATCHBOX HE USED FOR HIS RETREAT, THE SPIDER CRAWLED FORTH..

Don’t,Spid.Don’t.

Don’t, Spid.

HE SOBBEDSOMEWHAT LESS.

Go away,Spid.

IN THE HOUSE HE COULDHEAR MIRROR MIRRORBEING PLAYED...

TIMOTHY

DON’T FEEL BADLY, NEPHEWTIMOTHY. EACH TO HIS OWNIN HIS OWN WAY.

HOW MUCH BETTERTHINGS ARE FOR YOU.

HOW RICH.

THE WORLD’S DEADFOR US. WE’VE SEEN

SO MUCH OF ITBELIEVE ME.

LIFE’S BEST TO THOSE WHO LIVE THE LEAST OF IT.

IT’S WORTH MORE PER OUNCE, TIMOTHY, REMEMBER THAT.

THE REST OF THE BLACKMORNING FROM MIDNIGHT ONUNCLE EINAR LED HIM ABOUT THEHOUSE WEAVING AND SINGING.

A HORDE OF LATE ARRIVALSSET THE ENTIRE HILARITY AFRESH.

GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GREAT AND ATHOUSAND MORE GREAT-GREATSGRANDMOTHER WAS THERE.NUMEROUS YOUNG COUSINSCAROUSED AT THE CRYSTALPUNCH BOWL...

TO TIMOTHY THEREWERE THOUSANDS OF THINGS TOHEAR AND WATCH.

LISTEN!

THE PARTY HELD ITS BREATH, FAR AWAY THE TOWN CLOCK STRUCK ITSCHIMES, SAYING SIX O’CLOCK.

THE PARTY WAS ENDING.

IN TIME TO THE RHYTHM OF THESTRIKING CLOCK THEIR ONE HUNDREDVOICES BEGAN TO SING SONGS THATWERE FOUR HUNDRED YEARS OLD...

SONGS TIMOTHY COULD NOT KNOW.ARMS TWINED. CIRCLING SLOWLY...

THEY SANG

TIMOTHY SANG. HE KNEW NOWORDS, NO TUNE, YET THEWORDS AND TUNE CAMEROUND AND HIGH AND GOOD.

Thanks,Cecy.

you’re forgiven.

thanks.

THEN HE JUST RELAXEDAND LET THE WORDS MOVE, WITH CECY’S VOICE, FREEFROM HIS LIPS.

GOODBYES WERE SAID, THEREWAS A GREAT RUSTLING...

MOTHER AND FATHER STOOD AT THE DOOR TO SHAKE HANDS AND KISS EACH DEPARTING RELATIVE IN TURN...

A COLD WIND ENTERED, AND TIMOTHYFELT HIMSELF SEIZED AND SETTLED INONE BODY AFTER ANOTHER. . .

FELT CECY PRESS HIMINTO UNCLE FRY’S HEAD.

THEN LEAPED UP OVER THE HOUSE AND AWAKENING HILLS

AS INSIDE COUSINWILLIAM...

HE PANTED ANDDISSOLVED AWAY...

LIKE A PEBBLE INUNCLE EINAR’S MOUTH..

TIMOTHY FLEW IN A WEBBED THUNDER,FILLING THE SKY,

AND THEN...

HE WAS BACKFOR ALL TIME,

IN HIS OWNBODY.

IN THE GROWINGDAWN, THE LAST

FEW WERE EMBRACING

AND CRYING...

AND THINKING HOW THEWORLD WAS BECOMINGLESS A PLACE FOR THEM.

THERE HAD BEEN A TIME WHEN THEY HAD MET EVERY YEAR. BUT NOW DECADES PASSED WITH NO RECONCILIATION.

Don’t forget we met in Salem in 2015!

Salem.

Salem. 2015.

AND THERE WOULD BE UNCLE FRY AND ATHOUSAND TIMES GREAT GRANDMOTHERAND MOTHER AND FATHER AND ELLENAND LAURA AND CECY AND ALL THE REST.

BUT WOULD HE BE THERE?COULD HE BE CERTAIN OFSTAYING ALIVE UNTIL THEN?

WITH ONE LAST WITHERINGBLAST, AWAY THEY ALL WENT..

SO MANY MIDNIGHTS ANDINSANITIES AND DREAMS...

No. We’ll clean tonight.

Now we need our sleep.

AND THE FAMILYVANISHED DOWN

CELLAR ANDUPSTAIRS...

PASSING A PARTYMIRROR, TIMOTHYSAW THE PALEMORTALITY OFHIS FACE ALL COLD AND TREMBLING.

Timothy.

Son. We love you.Remember that.We all love you.

No matter howdifferent you areno matter if youleave us one day.

and if and when you die, your bones willlie undisturbed,we’ll see to that.

you’ll lieat easeforever...

and I’ll comevisit everyAllhallowsEve and tuckyou in the more secure.

THE HOUSE WAS SILENT. FARAWAY THE WIND WENT OVER AHILL WITH ITS LAST CARGO OFDARK BATS, ECHOING, CHITTERING.

TIMOTHY WALKED UP THE STEPS, ONE BY ONE,CRYING TO HIMSELFALL THE WAY.

23

My life has been filled with poetry, before and after I

married my wife, Marguerite. Before her there was

Shakespeare and Robert Frost and Poe. After our

marriage, when we walked around Los Angeles [we

couldn’t afford a car, so we walked everywhere or took

an occasional bus] she would quote favorite poems to

me. Emily Dickinson and Lord Byron and, one night,

THERE WILL COME SOFT RAINS by Sara Teas-

dale. I was so affected by the poem that I knew I must

do something with it; give it as a gift to others,

but also celebrate it by putting it into the

framework of a story.

Adapted by Lebbeus Woods

THERE WILL COMESOFT RAINS

24

In the living room the voice-clock sang, Tick-tock, seven o’clock,time to get up, time toget up, seven o’clock!The morning house lay empty.

In the kitchen the break-fast stove gave a hissing

sigh and ejected from its warm interior eightpieces of perfectly browned toast, eighteggs sunnyside up, sixteen slices of bacon,two coffees, and two cool glasses of milk.

“Today is August 4, 2026,” said a second voicefrom the kitchen ceiling, “in the city of Allen-dale, California. Today is Mr. Featherstone’sbirthday. Insurance is payable, as are the water,gas, and light bills.”

Somewhere in thewalls, relays clicked,memory tapes glidedunder electric eyes.

Eight-one, tick-tock,eight-one o’clock, off toschool, off to work, run,run, eight-one! But nodoors slammed, no car-

pets took the soft tread of rubber heels. It wasraining outside. The weather box on the frontdoor sang quietly: “Rain, rain, go away; rubbers,raincoats for today . . . “ And the rain tapped on the empty house, echoing.

Nine-fifteen, sang the clock, time to clean.

Out of warrens in the wall, tiny robot micedarted. The rooms wereacrawl with the smallcleaning animals, all rub-ber and metal. They thudded against chairs,whirling their mustachedrunners, kneading therug nap, sucking gently

at hidden dust. Then, like mysterious invaders,they popped into their burrows. Their pinkelectric eyes faded. The house was clean.

Ten o’clock. The sun came out from behind the rain. The house stood alone in a city of rubbleand ashes. This was the one house left standing.At night the ruined city gave off a radioactiveglow which could be seen for miles.

Ten-fifteen. The entirewest face of the housewas black, save for fiveplaces. Here the silhou-ette in paint of a manmowing a lawn. Here, as in a photograph, a woman bent to pickflowers. Still farther over, their images

burned on wood in one titanic instant, a smallboy, hands flung into the air; higher up, theimage of a thrown ball, and opposite him a girl,hands raised to catch a ball which never camedown.

The five spots of paint—the man, the woman, thechildren, the ball—remained. The rest was a thincharcoaled layer.

The gentle sprinkler rainfilled the garden withfalling light.

Until this day, how wellthe house had kept itspeace. How carefully ithad inquired, “Who goes there? What’s thepassword?” and, getting

no answer from lonely foxes and whining cats,it had shut up its windows and drawn shades inan old-maidenly preoccupation with self-protection which bordered on a mechani-cal paranoia.

It quivered at each sound, the house did. If a sparrow brushed a window, the shade snappedup. The bird, startled, flew off! No, not even abird must touch the house!

The house was an altarwith ten thousandattendants, big, small,servicing, attending, inchoirs. But the godshad gone away, andthe ritual of the reli-gion continued sense-lessly, uselessly.

Twelve noon.

Not a leaf fragment blew under the door butwhat the wall panels flipped open and the cop-per scrap rats flashed swiftly out. The offendingdust, hair, or paper, seized in miniature steeljaws, was raced back to the burrows. There, down tubes which fed into the cellar, it wasdropped into the sighing went of an incineratorwhich sat like evil Baal in a dark corner.

In the cellar, the incin-erator glowed suddenlyand a whirl of sparksleaped up the chimney.

Two thirty-five.

Bridge tables sproutedfrom patio walls.Playing cards fluttered

onto pads in a shower of pips. Martinis man-ifested on an oaken bench with egg-saladsandwiches. Music played. But the tableswere silent and the cards untouched.

At four o’clock the tables folded like great but-terflies back through the paneled walls.

Four-thirty.

The nursery walls glowed.

Animals took shape: yel-low giraffes, blue lions,pink antelopes, lilacpanthers cavorting incrystal substance. Thewalls were glass. Theylooked out upon colorand fantasy. Hiddenfilms clocked throughwell-oiled sprockets,

and the walls lived. The nursery floor waswoven to resemble a crisp, cereal meadow.Over this ran aluminum roaches and iron crick-ets, and in the hot still air butterflies of delicatered tissue wavered among the sharp aroma ofanimal spoors! Now the walls dissolved into dis-tances of parched weed, mile on mile, and warmendless sky. The animals drew away into thornbrakes and water holes.

It was the children’s hour.

Five o’clock. The bath filled with clearhot water.

Six, seven, eight o’clock.

In the study a click. In the metal stand oppositethe hearth where a fire

now blazed up warmly, a cigar popped out, halfan inch of soft gray ash on it, smoking, waiting.

Nine-five.

A voice spoke from the study ceiling:

“Mrs. McClellan, which poem would you likethis evening?”

The house was silent.

The voice said at last, “Since you express nopreference, I shall select a poem at random.”Quiet music rose to back the voice.“Sara Teasdale. As I recall, your favorite . . .

“There will come softrains and the smell ofthe ground.

And swallows cir-cling with their shim-mering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night.

And wild plum trees in tremulous white;

Robins will wear their feathery fire,Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,If mankind perished utterly;And Spring herself, when she woke at dawnWould scarcely know that we were gone.”

The fire burned on thestone hearth and thecigar fell away into amound of quiet ash onits tray.

At ten o’clock the housebegan to die.

The wind blew. A fallingtree bough crashed through the kitchen window.Cleaning solvent, bottled, shattered over thestove. The room was ablaze in an instant!

“Fire!” screamed a voice. The hour lightsflashed, water pumps shot water from the ceil-ings. But the solvent spread on the linoleum,licking, eating, under the kitchen door, whilethe voices took it up in chorus: “Fire, fire, fire!”

The house tried to save itself. Doors sprang tight-ly shut, but the windows were broken by the heatand the wind blew and sucked upon the fire.

The house gave groundas the fire in ten billionangry sparks movedwith flaming ease fromroom to room and thenup the stairs.

It fed upon Picassos andMatisses in the upperhalls, like delicacies,

baking off the oily flesh, tenderly crisping thecanvases into black shavings. Somewhere, sigh- ing, a pump shrugged to a stop. The quenchingrain ceased. The reserve water supply which hadfilled baths and washed dishes for many quietdays was gone.

Now the fire lay in beds, stood in windows,changed the colors of drapes!And then, reinforcements.

From attic trapdoors, blind robot facespeered down with faucet mouths gushinggreen chemical.

And the voices wailedfire, fire, run, run, likea tragic nursery rhyme,a dozen voices, high,low, like children dyingin a forest, alone,alone. And the voicesfading as the wirespopped their sheathingslike hot chestnuts.

One, two, three, four, five voices died.

The house shuddered, oak bone on bone, itsbared skeleton cringing from the heat, its wire,its nerves revealed as if a surgeon had torn theskin off to let the red veins and capillariesquiver in the scalded air. Help, help! Fire!Run, run! Ten more voices died. In the lastinstant under the fire avalanche, other chorus-es, oblivious, could be heard announcing the

time, playing music,cutting the lawn byremote-control mower,or setting an umbrellafrantically out and inthe slamming andopening front door, athousand things hap-pening, like a clockshop when each clock

strikes the hour insanely before or after theother, a scene of maniac confusion, yet unity;singing, screaming, a few last cleaning micedarting bravely out to carry the horrid ashesaway! And one voice, with sublime disregardfor the situation, read poetry aloud in the fierystudy, until all the film spools burned, until allthe wires withered and the circuits cracked.

The fire burst the house and let it slam flat down,puffing out skirts of spark and smoke.

The crash. The attic smashing into kitchenand parlor. The parlor into cellar, cellarinto sub-cellar. Deep freeze, armchair, filmtapes, circuits, beds, and all like skeletonsthrown in a cluttered mound deep under.

Smoke and silence. A great quantity of smoke.

Dawn showed faintly in the east. Among the ruins, one wall stood alone. Within the wall, alast voice said, over and over again and again, even as the sun rose to shine upon theheaped rubble and steam: “August 5, 2026.”

34

A S P E C I A L E . C . C O M I C SR A Y B R A D B U R Y C L A S S I C

I l l u s t r a t e d B y Wa l l y Wo o dN e w l y C o l o r e d B y Pa u l R i v o c h e

By happy, or unhappy, coincidence I had that week seen a pho-

tograph taken in Hiroshima not long after the A-Bomb blast

that killed tens of thousands. On the side of a house I saw

burned-away areas which left, in silhouette, unburned paint

where the shapes of people had stood. Their images, like pho-

tographs, had been etched on the side of the house. This pho-

tograph was so terrible that when I heard the Teasdale poem,

the two elements fused and within three hours I wrote and fin-

ished THERE WILL COME SOFT RAINS. It honors not only

the poet but the shapes of vanished people, fixed in paint on

that house-siding so many years ago.

THE SUN CAME OUT FROM BEHIND THE RAIN. THE HOUSE STOOD ALONE IN A CITY OF RUBBLE AND ASHES.THIS WAS THE ONE HOUSE LEFT STANDING! AT NIGHT, THE RUINED CITY GAVE OFF A RADIOACTIVE GLOWWHICH COULD BE SEEN FOR MILES. THE ENTIRE WEST FACE OF THE HOUSE WAS BLACK, SAVE FOR FIVEPLACES. HERE, THE WHITE SILHOUETTE OF A MAN MOWED A LAWN. THERE, AS IN A PHOTOGRAPH, A WOMAN BENTTO PICK FLOWERS. STILL FARTHER OVER, THEIR IMAGES OUTLINED IN ONE TITANIC INSTANT, A SMALL BOY,HANDS FLUNG INTO THE AIR...HIGHER UP, THE IMAGE OF A THROWN BALL...AND OPPOSITE HIM, A GIRL,HANDS RAISED TO CATCH THE BALL WHICH NEVER CAME DOWN...

THE FIVE SPOTS OF PAINT...THE MAN, THE WOMAN, THE CHILDREN, THE BALL REMAINED! THE REST WAS A CHARCOAL LAYER...

THE MORNING HOUSE LAY EMPTY. IN THE LIVING ROOM, THE VOICE-CLOCK SANG, REPEATING AND REPEATINGITS SOUNDS INTO THE EMPTINESS...

TICK-TOCK! SEVEN O’CLOCK! TIME TO GETUP! TIME TO GET UP! SEVEN O’CLOCK...

IN THE KITCHEN, THE BREAKFAST STOVE GAVE AHISSING SIGH AND EJECTED FROM ITS WARM INTER-IOR EIGHT PIECES OF PERFECTLY BROWNED TOAST,EIGHT EGGS SUNNYSIDE UP, SIXTEEN SLICES OFBACON, TWO COFFEES, AND TWO COOL GLASSES OF MILK...

SEVEN-NINE! BREAKFAST TIME! SEVEN-NINE...

SOMEWHERE IN THE WALLS, RELAYS CLICKED...MEMORY TAPES GLIDEDUNDER ELECTRIC EYES...

TODAY IS AUGUST 4, 2026! TODAYIS MR. FEATHERSTONE’S BIRTHDAY!TODAY IS THE ANNIVERSARY OF TILITA’S MARRIAGE! INSURANCEIS PAYABLE...AS ARE THE WATER, GAS, AND LIGHT BILLS...

THE VOICE CLOCK SOUNDED AGAIN...EIGHT-ONE! TICK-TOCK! EIGHT-ONEO’CLOCK! OFF TO SCHOOL! OFF TOWORK! RUN! RUN! EIGHT-ONE...

BUT NO DOORS SLAMMED. NO CAR-PETS TOOK THE SOFT TREAD OFRUBBER HEELS. IT WAS RAININGAGAIN OUTSIDE. THE WEATHER-BOX ON THE FRONT DOOR SANG QUIETLY...

RAIN, RAIN, GO AWAY! RUBBERS,RAINCOATS FOR TODAY...

OUTSIDE, THE GARAGE CHIMED AND LIFTED ITS DOORS TO REVEAL THEWAITING CAR...

AFTER A LONG WAIT, THE DOORSWUNG DOWN AGAIN. AT EIGHT-THIRTY, THE EGGS WERE SHRIVELEDAND THE TOAST WAS LIKE STONE.AN ALUMINUM WEDGE SCRAPED THEM INTO THE SINK...

...WHERE HOT WATER WHIRLED THEMDOWN A METAL THROAT WHICHDIGESTED AND FLUSHED THEMAWAY TO THE DISTANT SEA. THEDIRTY DISHES WERE DROPPED INTOA HOT WASHER AND EMERGED TWINKLING DRY...

NINE-FIFTEEN!TIME TO CLEAN!

OUT OF WARRENS IN THE WALL,TINY ROBOT MICE-LIKE THINGSDARTED. THE ROOMS WERE ACRAWLWITH THE SMALL CLEANING ANIMALS,ALL RUBBER AND METAL...

THEY THUDDED AGAINST CHAIRS,WHIRLING THEIR MUSTACHED RUN-NERS, KNEADING THE RUG NAP,SUCKING GENTLY AT HIDDEN DUST.THEN, LIKE MYSTERIOUS INVADERS,THEY POPPED BACK INTO THEIRNOOKS, THEIR PINK ELECTRIC-EYES FADED. THE HOUSE WASCLEAN...

TEN-FIFTEEN. THE GARDEN SPRIN-KLERS CAME UP IN GOLDEN FOUNTS.THE WATER PELTED WINDOWPANES,RUNNING DOWN THE CHARRED WESTSIDE WHERE THE HOUSE HAD BEENBURNED EVENLY FREE OF ITS WHITE PAINT...

TWELVE NOON. A DOG WHINED,SHIVERING, ON THE FRONT PORCH...

THE FRONT DOOR RECOGNIZED THE DOG’S VOICE AND OPENED. THE DOG,ONCE HUGE AND FLESHY, BUT NOWGONE TO BONE AND COVERED WITH SORES, MOVED INSIDE, TRACKINGMUD...

BEHIND IT, ANGRY MICE WHIRRED...ANGRY AT HAVING TO PICK UP MUD...ANGRY AT INCONVENIENCE. FORNOT A LEAF FRAGMENT BLEW UNDERTHE DOOR BUT WHAT THE WALLPANELS FLIPPED OPEN AND THE SCRAP RATS FLASHED SWIFTLYOUT...

THE DOG RAN AROUND, HYSTERICALLYYELPING TO EACH DOOR,AT LAST REALIZING, AS THE HOUSE REALIZED,THAT ONLY SILENCE WAS HERE! ITSNIFFED THE AIR AND SCRATCHEDAT THE KITCHEN DOOR...

BEHIND THE DOOR, THE STOVE WASMAKING LUNCH...PANCAKES WHICHFILLED THE HOUSE WITH A RICHBAKING ODOR AND THE SCENTOF MAPLE SYRUP...

THE DOG FROTHED AT THE MOUTH,LYING AT THE DOOR, SNIFFING, ITSEYES TURNED TO FIRE...

IT RAN WILDLY IN CIRCLES,BITINGITS TAIL, SPUN IN A FRENZY...

...AND DIED! IT LAY IN THE HALL-WAY FOR AN HOUR...

TWO O’CLOCK! TWO O’CLOCK!

DELICATELY SENSING DECAY ATLAST, THE REGIMENTS OF MICE HUM-MED OUT AS SOFTLY AS BLOWNLEAVES IN AN ELECTRICAL WIND...

TWO-FIFTEEN. THE DOG WAS GONE! 3

IN THE CELLAR, THE INCINERATORGLOWED SUDDENLY AND A WHIRL OF SPARKS LEAPED UP THE CHIMNEY...

TWO THIRTY-FIVE. BRIDGE TABLESSPROUTED FROM PATIO WALLS.PLAYING CARDS FLUTTERED ONTOPADS IN A SHOWER OF PIPS.MARTINIS AND EGG SALAD SAND-WICHES MANIFESTED ON AN OAKEN SERVER. MUSIC PLAYED...

FOUR-O’CLOCK. THE TABLES FOLDEDLIKE GREAT BUTTERFLIES BACKTHROUGH PANEL WALLS...

FOUR-THIRTY. THE NURSERY WALLSGLOWED! ANIMALS TOOK SHAPE...YELLOW GIRAFFES, BLUE LIONS,PINK ANTELOPES, LILAC PANTHERS...CAVORTING IN CRYSTAL SUBSTANCE!IT WAS THE CHILDREN’S HOUR...

FIVE O’CLOCK. THE BATH FILLEDWITH CLEAR HOT WATER...

SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT O’CLOCK. DINNER.IN THE STUDY...A CLICK. A CIGARPOPPED UP IN THE METAL STANDOPPOSITE THE HEARTH... HALF AN INCH OF GREY ASH ON IT, SMOKING,WAITING...

NINE O’CLOCK. HIDDEN CIRCUITS WARMED THE BEDS, FOR NIGHTSWERE COOL HERE...

THE FIRE BURNED ON THE STONEHEARTH AND THE CIGAR FELLAWAY INTO A MOUND OF QUIETASH ON ITS TRAY...

THE EMPTY CHAIRS FACED EACHOTHER BETWEEN THE SILENT WALLS.AND THE MUSIC PLAYED...

AT TEN O’CLOCK THE HOUSEBEGAN TO DIE! THE WIND BLEW. AFALLING BOUGH CRASHED THROUGHTHE KITCHEN WINDOW...

CLEANING SOLVENT, BOTTLED, SHATTERED OVER THE STOVE!

THE ROOM WAS ABLAZE IN ANINSTANT... FIRE! FIRE!

THE HOUSE LIGHTS FLASHED ONWATER PUMPS SHOT FROM THE CEILINGS...

BUT THE SOLVENT SPREAD ONTHE LINOLEUM, LICKING, EATING,UNDER THE KITCHEN DOOR,WHILE THE VOICES TOOK UPTHE CHORUS...

FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!

THE HOUSE TRIED TO SAVEITSELF. DOORS SPRANG TIGHTLYSHUT, BUT THE WINDOWS WEREBROKEN BY THE HEAT, AND THEWIND BLEW, SUCKING UPON THEFIRE...

THE HOUSE GAVE GROUND AS THE FIRE IN TENBILLION ANGRY SPARKS MOVED WITH FLAMINGEASE FROM ROOM TO ROOM THROUGH THE HOUSE...

...WHILE SCURRYING WATER RATS SQUEAKED FROMTHE WALLS, PISTOLED THEIR WATER, AND RAN FORMORE. THE WALL SPRAYS LET DOWN SHOWERS OFMECHANICAL RAIN...

BUT IT WAS TOO LATE! SOMEWHERE, SIGHING, A PUMPSHRUGGED TO A STOP. THE QUENCHING RAINS CEASED.THE RESERVE WATER SUPPLY WHICH HAD FILLED BATHSAND WASHED DISHES FOR MANY QUIET DAYS, WASGONE! THE FIRE CRACKLED ON...

IT FED UPON PICASSOS AND MATISSES IN THE HALLS,LIKE DELICACIES, BAKING OFF THE OILY FLESH,TENDERLY CRISPING THE CANVASES INTO BLACKSHAVINGS...

NOW THE FIRE LAY IN BEDS, STOODIN WINDOWS, CHANGING THE COLOROF THE DRAPES...

AND THEN REINFORCEMENTS!FROM ATTIC TRAP-DOORS, BLINDROBOT FACES PEERED DOWN WITHFAUCET-MOUTHS GUSHING GREENCHEMICAL...

THE FIRE BACKED OFF, AS EVEN ANELEPHANT MUST AT THE SIGHT OFA DEAD SNAKE. NOW THERE WERETWENTY SNAKES WHIPPING OVERTHE FLOOR, KILLING THE FIRE WITHA CLEAR COLD VENOM OF GREENFROTH...

BUT THE FIRE WAS CLEVER! IT HAD SENT FLAMESOUTSIDE THE HOUSE, UP THROUGH THE ATTIC TO THEPUMPS THERE! AN EXPLOSION...

THE ATTIC BRAIN WHICH DIRECTED THE PUMPS WASSHATTERED INTO BRONZE SHRAPNEL ON THE BEAMS.THE FIRE RUSHED BACK INTO EVERY CLOSET ANDFELT OF THE CLOTHES HUNG THERE...

THE HOUSE SHUDDERED, OAK BONE ON BONE, ITSBARED SKELETON CRINGING FROM THE HEAT, ITSWIRES, ITS NERVES REVEALED AS IF A SURGEON HADTORN THE SKIN OFF TO LET RED VEINS AND CAPIL-LARIES QUIVER IN THE SCALDING AIR. HEAT SNAPPEDMIRRORS. THE VOICES WAILED...

HELP! HELP! FIRE! RUN...RUN...

...LIKE A TRAGIC NURSERY RHYME. A DOZEN VOICES,HIGH, LOW, LIKE CHILDREN DYING IN A FOREST, ALONE,ALONE. AND THE VOICES FADED AS THE WIRES POPPEDTHEIR SHEATHINGS. IN THE NURSERY, THE BLUE LIONSROARED, PURPLE GIRAFFS BOUNDED OFF, PANTHERSRAN IN CIRCLES, CHANGING COLOR...

VOICES DIED. IN THE LAST INSTANT UNDER THE FIREAVALANCHE, OTHER CHORUSES, OBLIVIOUS, COULD BEHEARD ANNOUNCING THE TIME, PLAYING MUSIC, REMINDINGTHE HOT FLAMES OF DUE BILLS. DOORS OPENED ANDSLAMMED. A FEW LAST CLEANING MICE DARTED BRAVELY OUT TO CARRY AWAY THE HORRID ASHES...

AND IN THE KITCHEN, AN INSTANT BEFORE THERAIN OF FIRE AND TIMBER, THE STOVE COULD BESEEN MAKING BREAKFAST AT A PSYCHOPATHICRATE...TEN DOZEN EGGS, SIX LOAVES OF TOAST,TWENTY DOZEN BACON STRIPS, WHICH, EATEN BYFIRE STARTED THE STOVE WORKING AGAIN,HYSTERICALLY HISSING ...

THE CRASH! THE ATTIC SMASHED INTOTHE KITCHEN... THE KITCHEN INTO THE CELLAR... CELLAR INTO SUB-CELLAR.DEEP-FREEZE, ARMCHAIR, FILM TAPES,CIRCUITS, BEDS, ALL LIKE SKELETONSTHROWN IN A CLUTTERED MOUND DEEP UNDER...

THEN, SMOKE...AND SILENCE! DAWN SHOWED FAINTLY IN THE EAST. AMONG THE RUINS, ONE WALLSTOOD ALONE, WITHIN THE WALL,A LAST VOICE SAID,OVER AND OVER, AGAIN AND AGAIN...

TODAY IS AUGUST 5, 2026! TODAY IS AUGUST 5, 2026! TODAY IS...

–THE

END–

Executive Editor: Byron Preiss • Editor: Howard Zimmerman • Art Director/Designer: Dean Motter

Assistant Editor: Jessica Steinberg • Managing Editor: Sally Arbuthnot

Additional Lettering: Kurt Hathaway • Design Assistants: Rosana Ragusa, Veronica Carman

Special Thanks to: Lou Aronica and Robert Simpson at Bantam Books, Don Congdon,

Rafael Martinez, Vincente Campos, the folks at Sprintout, Danner Press and Uncle Ray.

STEVE LEIALOHA has workedin the comic book industry forthe past twenty years on adiverse number of titles, includ-ing “Star Wars,” “X-Men,”“Batman,” “Warlock” and “Tryp-to the Acid Dog.” He has madeoccasional storyboarding foraysinto the film and televisionbusiness and is currently work-ing on the comic book adapta-tion of “The Hitchhiker ’s Guideto the Galaxy.”

LEBBEUS WOODS is an archi-tect, a teacher and a visionary,equally at ease with Newtonianphysics and science fiction. Hehas lived in New York Citysince 1976, where he concen-trates on architectural theory,experimental projects andteaching.

WALLYWOOD joined the staff of E.C. Comics in 1950, and quickly became one of its pre- mier artists. Wood contributed to the E.C. science fiction titles, doing some of the very first graphic adaptations of Bradbury’s short stories. He also worked on the much lauded “war” titles, Two-Fisted Tales and Frontline Combat. And, in 1952, Wood became a major contributor to MAD, doing flawless parodies of established comic strips and books. He is widely acknowledged as one of the most talented artists ever to work in the comic field.