Long After Midnight. Ray Bradbury

      “Shut up, shut up,” said Beck, kicking a slide of pebbles out of his way.

      They walked together into the ruined city, over a mosaic of cracked tiles shaped into a stone tapestry of fragile Martian creatures, long-dead beasts which appeared and disappeared as a slight breath of wind stirred the silent dust.

      “Wait,” said Beck. He cupped his hands to his mouth and gave a great shout. “You there!”

      “… there,” said an echo, and towers fell. Fountains and stone pillars folded into themselves. That was the way of these cities. Sometimes towers as beautiful as a symphony would fall at a spoken word. It was like watching a Bach cantata disintegrate before your eyes.

      A moment later: bones buried in bones. The dust settled. Two structures remained intact.

      Beck stepped forward, nodding to his friend.

      They moved in search.

      And, searching, Craig paused, a faint smile on his lips. “In that bottle,” he said, “is there a little accordion woman, all folded up like one of those tin cups, or like one of those Japanese flowers you put in water and it opens out?”

      “I don’t need a woman.”

      “Maybe you do. Maybe you never had a real woman, a woman who loved you, so, secretly, that’s what you hope is in it.” Craig pursed his mouth. “Or maybe, in that bottle, something from your childhood. All in a tiny bundle—a lake, a tree you climbed, green grass, some crayfish. How’s that sound?”

      Beck’s eyes focused on a distant point. “Sometimes—that’s almost it. The past—Earth. I don’t know.”

      Craig nodded. “What’s in the bottle would depend, maybe, on who’s looking. Now, if there was a shot of whiskey in it …”

      “Keep looking,” said Beck.

      There were seven rooms filled with glitter and shine; from floor to tiered ceiling there were casks, crocks, magnums, urns, vases—fashioned of red, pink, yellow, violet, and black glass. Beck shattered them, one by one, to eliminate them, to get them out of the way so he would never have to go through them again.

      Beck finished his room, stood ready to invade the next. He was almost afraid to go on. Afraid that this time he would find it; that the search would be over and the meaning would go out of his life. Only after he had heard of the Blue Bottle from fire-travelers all the way from Venus to Jupiter, ten years ago, had life begun to take on a purpose. The fever had lit him and he had burned steadily ever since. If he worked it properly, the prospect of finding the bottle might fill his entire life to the brim. Another thirty years, if he was careful and not too diligent, of search, never admitting aloud that it wasn’t the bottle that counted at all, but the search, the running and the hunting, the dust and the cities and the going-on.

      Beck heard a muffled sound. He turned and walked to a window looking out into the courtyard. A small gray sand cycle had purred up almost noiselessly at the end of the street. A plump man with blond hair eased himself off the spring seat and stood looking into the city. Another searcher. Beck sighed. Thousands of them, searching and searching. But there were thousands of brittle cities and towns and villages and it would take a millennium to sift them all.

      “How you doing?” Craig appeared in a doorway.

      “No luck.” Beck sniffed the air. “Do you smell anything?”

      “What?” Craig looked about.

      “Smells like—bourbon.”

      “Ho!” Craig laughed. “That’s me!”

      “You?”

      “I just took a drink. Found it in the other room. Shoved some stuff around, a mess of bottles, like always, and one of them had some bourbon in it, so I had myself a drink.”

      Beck was staring at him, beginning to tremble. “What—what would bourbon be doing here, in a Martian bottle?” His hands were cold. He took a slow step forward. “Show me!”

      “I’m sure that …”

      “Show me, damn you!”

      It was there, in one corner of the room, a container of Martian glass as blue as the sky, the size of a small fruit, light and airy in Beck’s hand as he set it down upon a table.

      “It’s half-full of bourbon,” said Craig.

      “I don’t see anything inside,” said Beck.

      “Then shake it.”

      Beck picked it up, gingerly shook it.

      “Hear it gurgle?”

      “No.”

      “I can hear it plain.”

      Beck replaced it on the table. Sunlight spearing through a side window struck blue flashes off the slender container. It was the blue of a star held in the hand. It was the blue of a shallow ocean bay at noon. It was the blue of a diamond at morning.

      “This is it,” said Beck quietly. “I know it is. We don’t have to look anymore. We’ve found the Blue Bottle.”

      Craig looked skeptical. “Sure you don’t see anything in it?”

      “Nothing … But—” Beck bent close and peered deeply into the blue universe of glass. “Maybe if I open it up and let it out, whatever it is, I’ll know.”

      “I put the stopper in tight. Here.” Craig reached out.

      “If you gentlemen will excuse me,” said a voice in the door behind them.

      The plump man with blond hair walked into their line of vision with a gun. He did not look at their faces, he looked only at the blue glass bottle. He began to smile. “I hate very much to handle guns,” he said, “but it is a matter of necessity, as I simply must have that work of art. I suggest that you allow me to take it without trouble.”

      Beck was almost pleased. It had a certain beauty of timing, this incident; it was the sort of thing he might have wished for, to have the treasure stolen before it was opened. Now there was the good prospect of a chase, a fight, a series of gains and losses, and, before they were done, perhaps another four or five years spent upon a new search.

      “Come along now,” said the stranger. “Give it up.” He raised the gun warningly.

      Beck handed him the bottle.

      “Amazing. Really amazing,” said the plump man. “I can’t believe it was as simple as this, to walk in, hear two men talking, and to have the Blue Bottle simply handed to me. Amazing!” And he wandered off down the hall, out into the daylight, chuckling to himself.

      Under the cool double moons of Mars the midnight cities were bone and dust. Along the scattered highway the landcar bumped and rattled, past cities where the fountains, the gyrostats, the furniture, the metal-singing books, the paintings lay powdered over with mortar and insect wings. Past cities that were cities no longer, but only things rubbed to a fine silt that flowered senselessly back and forth on the wine winds between one land and another, like the sand in a gigantic hourglass, endlessly pyramiding and repyramiding. Silence opened to let the car pass, and closed swiftly in behind.

      Craig said, “We’ll never find him. These damned roads. So old. Potholes, lumps, everything wrong. He’s got the advantage with the cycle; he can dodge and weave. Damn!”

      They swerved abruptly, avoiding a bad stretch. The car moved over the old highway like an eraser, coming upon blind soil, passing over it, dusting it away to reveal the emerald and gold colors of ancient Martian mosaics worked into the road surface.

      “Wait,” cried Beck. He throttled the car down. “I saw something back there.”

      “Where?”

      They drove back a hundred yards.

      “There.