Adaptations[ edit ] A teleplay of this story was written by Bradbury for possible use on the television program The Twilight Zone , but Rod Serling and the producers of the show deemed it too expensive to film. It was later produced as a radio episode of the series Bradbury 13 June 18, and the television program Ray Bradbury Theater November 30, The planet promptly has him killed, whilst the captain takes the bomb on board their spaceship and takes off, although not until after one of the men sneaks off to live on the planet. The navigator tells the captain of this, saying it is not too late to turn back and get him, but the captain reveals the bomb, stating that it is too late, and to plot a course as far away as possible. The story ends with the planet giving the remaining astronaut a new pet dog, as well as the promise of a female companion.

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Smell it, taste it! A rare white wine! They passed the canteens around. They had idled on through the gentle afternoon, not wanting to do anything to disturb the peace that lay all about them.

They were like very young men in the presence of great beauty, of a fine and famous woman, afraid that by some word, some gesture, they might turn her face away, avert her loveliness and her kindly attentions. They had felt the earthquake that had greeted Chatterton, and they did not want earthquake.

Let them sit under the shade trees or walk on the tender hills, but let them drill no drillings, test no testings, contaminate no contaminations. They found a small stream which poured into a boiling water pool. Fish, swimming in the cold creek above, fell glittering into the hot spring and floated, minutes later, cooked, to the surface. Chatterton reluctantly joined the others, eating. You can sleep out if you want.

But it needs us to show off to, to appreciate its beauty. He was bent over, being sick. They gave him water. The others were feeling fine. No initial-cutting on the trees. Replace the turf on the greens. Clean up your banana peels after you. From the storage port rolled the great shining Drill.

Chatterton followed it, calling directions to its robot radio. The Drill plunged its long screw-bore into the green grass. Chatterton waved up at the other men. The Drill stood in the center of a little sea of grass.

For a moment it plunged away, bringing up moist corks of sod which it spat unceremoniously into a shaking analysis bin. Now the Drill gave a wrenched, metallic squeal like a monster interrupted at its feed.

From the soil beneath it slow bluish liquids bubbled up. Chatterton shouted, "Get back, you fool! It shrieked like a mighty train turning on a sharp curve, throwing out red sparks. It was sinking.

The black slime gave under it in a dark convulsion. With a coughing sigh, a series of pants and churnings, the Drill sank into a black scum like an elephant shot and dying, trumpeting, like a mammoth at the end of an age, vanishing limb by ponderous limb into the pit. Fool," said Forester under his breath, fascinated with the scene. The fool machine hit a tar pit!

Chatterton turned to the other men far away. The tar pit bubbled and gloated, sucking the hidden monster bones. The surface of the pool was silent. A huge bubble, the last, rose, expelled a scent of ancient petroleum, and fell apart. The men came down and stood on the edge of the little black sea. Chatterton stopped yelling. After a long minute of staring into the silent tar pool, Chatterton turned and looked at the hills, blindly, at the green rolling lawns.

The distant trees were growing fruit now and dropping it, softly, to the ground. Chatterton ran. He ran, then remembered he could fly. A small grove of trees stood between the rocket and Chatterton as he ran on the ground, forgetting that he could fly, or afraid to fly, or not allowed to fly, yelling. The crew headed for the rocket to wait for him, the captain with them. They arrived, formed a line, and shut the rocket port. The last they saw of Chatterton he was plunging through the edge of the tiny forest.

The crew stood waiting. That fool, that crazy guy. Two men flew off. Now, softly, a great and gentle rain fell upon the green world. What a world! The sun was setting. The moon, a large one the color of ice, rose over the freshened hills. Perhaps if we asked for companionship. Here, maybe. On Earth you sweat just to save enough to buy a house, pay taxes; the cities stink. If it gets monotonous you can ask for rain, clouds, snow, changes. The men shivered. What about him?

The two men who had flown off to find Chatterton were waving at the edge of the woods. Forester, Driscoll, and Koestler flew down alone.

A heavy smell of some feline animal hung in the air. The men lay on the resilient grass by the rocket and the night was warm.

Secondly, I like this planet too much; I respect it. Which it would be to the average man, like Chatterton, jumping in here to hurt it. Chatterton vanishes, is killed most horribly, perhaps, yet we lie here, no one runs, no one trembles. We trust it and it trusts us. A world of moderation. A drop of rain splashed on his lips. He laughed quietly. Distantly he heard soft, high voices. He turned his eyes in upon a vision. There was a group of hills from which flowed a clear river, and in the shallows of that river, sending up spray, their faces shimmering, were the beautiful women.

They played like children on the shore. And it came to Forester to know about them and their life. They were nomads, roaming the face of this world as was their desire. There were no highways or cities, there were only hills and plains and winds to carry them like white feathers where they wished.

As Forester shaped the questions, some invisible answerer whispered the answers. There were no men. These women, alone, produced their race.

The men had vanished fifty thousand years ago. And where were these women now? A mile down from the green forest, a mile over on the wine stream by the six white stones, and a third mile to the large river. There, in the shallows, were the women who would make fine wives, and raise beautiful children.

Forester opened his eyes. The other men were sitting up. Nobody spoke again for at moment. They looked at the silver rocket standing there in the starlight "Do we walk or fly, Captain? What do you say? His tongue moved again and again on his lips.

His hands twitched over his knees. The crew sat waiting. People invested in our ship. We owe it to them to go back. The men still sat on the ground, not listening to him.

They stared at the soft hills and the trees and the rivers running off to other horizons. The rocket rose into the sky. Looking back, Forester saw every valley and every tiny lake.


Ray Bradbury: Here There Be Tygers



Here There Be Tygers




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