I Sing the Body Electric. Ray Bradbury

he said.

      I was silent.

      “What kind of stuff you put in?” he asked.

      I could have said: Reading late at night, reading many nights over the years until almost morning, reading up in the mountains in the snow or reading at noon in Pamplona, or reading by the streams or out in a boat somewhere along the Florida coast. Or I could have said: All of us put our hands on this Machine, all of us thought about it and bought it and touched it and put our love in it and our remembering what his words did to us twenty years or twenty-five or thirty years ago. There’s a lot of life and remembering and love put by here, and that’s the gas and the fuel and the stuff or whatever you want to call it; the rain in Paris, the sun in Madrid, the snow in the high Alps, the smoke off the guns in the Tyrol, the shine of light off the Gulf Stream, the explosion of bombs or explosions of leapt fish, that’s the gas and the fuel and the stuff here; I should have said that, I thought it, but I let it stay unsaid.

      The hunter must have smelled my thought, for his eyes squinted up and, telepath that he was from long years in the forest, chewed over my thinking.

      Then he walked over and did an unexpected thing. He reached out and…touched…my Machine.

      He laid his hand on it and left it there, as if feeling for the life, and approving what he sensed beneath his hand. He stood that way for a long time.

      Then he turned without a word, not looking at me, and went back into the bar and sat drinking alone, his back turned toward the door.

      I didn’t want to break the silence. It seemed a good time to go, to try.

      I got in the truck and started the motor.

      What kind of mileage? What kind of fuel? I thought. And drove away.

      I kept on the road and didn’t look right or left and I drove for what must have been an hour, first this direction and then that, part of the time my eyes shut for full seconds, taking a chance I might go off and get hurt or killed.

      And then, just before noon, with the clouds over the sun, suddenly I knew it was all right.

      I looked up at the hill and I almost yelled.

      The grave was gone.

      I drove down into a little hollow just then and on the road ahead, wandering along by himself, was an old man in a heavy sweater.

      I idled the safari truck along until I was pacing him as he walked. I saw he was wearing steel-rimmed glasses and for a long moment we moved together, each ignoring the other until I called his name.

      He hesitated, and then walked on.

      I caught up with him in the truck and said again, “Papa.”

      He stopped and waited.

      I braked the car and sat there in the front seat.

      “Papa,” I said.

      He came over and stood near the door.

      “Do I know you?”

      “No. But I know you.”

      He looked me in the eyes and studied my face and mouth. “Yes. I think you do.”

      “I saw you on the road. I think I’m going your way. Want a lift?”

      “It’s good walking this time of day,” he said. “Thanks.”

      “Let me tell you where I’m going,” I said.

      He had started off but now stopped and, without looking at me, said, “Where?”

      “A long way,” I said.

      “It sounds long, the way you tell it. Can’t you make it shorter?”

      “No. A long way,” I said. “About two thousand six hundred days, give or take some days, and half an afternoon.”

      He came back and looked into the car.

      “Is that how far you’re going?”

      “That’s how far.”

      “In which direction? Ahead?”

      “Don’t you want to go ahead?”

      He looked at the sky. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

      “It’s not ahead,” I said. “It’s back.”

      His eyes took on a different color. It was a subtle shift, a flex, like a man stepping out from the shade of a tree into sunlight on a cloudy day.

      “Back.”

      “Somewhere between two thousand and three thousand days, split half a day, give or take an hour, borrow or loan a minute, haggle over a second,” I said.

      “You really talk,” he said.

      “Compulsive,” I said.

      “You’d make a lousy writer,” he said. “I never knew a writer yet was a good talker.”

      “That’s my albatross,” I said.

      “Back?” He weighed the word.

      “I’m turning the car around,” I said. “And I’m going back down the road.”

      “Not miles but days?”

      “Not miles but days.”

      “Is it that kind of car?”

      “That’s how it’s built.”

      “You’re an inventor then?”

      “A reader who happens to invent.”

      “If the car works, that’s some car you got there.”

      “At your service,” I said.

      “And when you get where you’re going,” said the old man, putting his hand on the door and leaning and then, seeing what he had done, taking his hand away and standing taller to speak to me, “where will you be?”

      “January 10, 1954.”

      “That’s quite a date,” he said.

      “It is, it was. It can be more of a date.”

      Without moving, his eyes took another step out into fuller light.

      “And where will you be on that day?”

      “Africa,” I said.

      He was silent. His mouth did not work. His eyes did not shift.

      “Not far from Nairobi,” I said.

      He nodded, once, slowly.

      “Africa, not far from Nairobi.”

      I waited.

      “And when we get there, if we go?” he said.

      “I leave you there.”

      “And then?”

      “You stay there.”

      “And then?”

      “That’s all.”

      “That’s all?”

      “Forever,” I said.

      The old man breathed out and in, and ran his hand over the edge of the doorsill.

      “This car,” he said, “somewhere along the way does it turn into a plane?”

      “I don’t know,” I said.

      “Somewhere along the way do you turn into my pilot?”

      “It could be. I’ve never done this before.”

      “But you’re willing to try?”

      I nodded.

      “Why?” he said, and leaned in and stared me directly in the face with