The Illustrated Man. Ray Bradbury

car drove up from another direction and Hattie gave a cry. ‘Willie!’

      ‘What you doing ’way down here? Where’re the kids?’ shouted her husband angrily. He glared at the others. ‘You going down like a bunch of fools to see that man come in?’

      ‘That appears to be just right,’ agreed Mr Brown, nodding and smiling.

      ‘Well, take your guns along,’ said Willie. ‘I’m on my way home for mine right now!’

      ‘Willie!’

      ‘You get in this car, Hattie.’ He held the door open firmly, looking at her until she obeyed. Without another word to the others he roared the car down the dusty road.

      ‘Willie, not so fast!’

      ‘Not so fast, huh! We’ll see about that.’ He watched the road tear under the car. ‘What right they got coming up here this late? Why don’t they leave us in peace? Why didn’t they blow themselves up on that old world and let us be?’

      ‘Willie, that ain’t no Christian way to talk.’

      ‘I’m not feeling Christian,’ he said savagely, gripping the wheel. ‘I’m just feeling mean. After all them years of doing what they did to our folks – my mom and dad, and your mom and dad – You remember? You remember how they hung my father on Knockwood Hill and shot my mother? You remember? Or you got a memory that’s short like the others?’

      ‘I remember,’ she said.

      ‘You remember Dr Phillips and Mr Burton and their big houses, and my mother’s washing shack, and Dad working when he was old, and the thanks he got was being hung by Dr Phillips and Mr Burton. Well,’ said Willie, ‘the shoe’s on the other foot now. We’ll see who gets laws passed against him, who gets lynched, who rides the back of streetcars, who gets segregated in shows. We’ll just wait and see.’

      ‘Oh, Willie, you’re talking trouble.’

      ‘Everybody’s talking. Everybody’s thought on this day, thinking it’d never be. Thinking. What kind of day would it be if the white man ever came up here to Mars? But here’s the day, and we can’t run away.’

      ‘Ain’t you going to let the white people live up here?’

      ‘Sure.’ He smiled, but it was a wide, mean smile, and his eyes were mad. ‘They can come up and live and work here, why, certainly. All they got to do to deserve it is live in their own small part of town, the slums, and shine our shoes for us, and mop up our trash, and sit in the last row in the balcony. That’s all we ask. And once a week we hang one or two of them. Simple.’

      ‘You don’t sound human, and I don’t like it.’

      ‘You’ll have to get used to it,’ he said. He braked the car to a stop before the house and jumped out. ‘Find my guns and some rope. We’ll do this right.’

      ‘Oh, Willie,’ she wailed, and just sat there in the car while he ran up the steps and slammed the front door.

      She went along. She didn’t want to go along, but he rattled around in the attic, cursing like a crazy man until he found four guns. She saw the brutal metal of them glittering in the black attic, and she couldn’t see him at all, he was so dark; she heard only his swearing, and at last his long legs came climbing down from the attic in a shower of dust, and he stacked up bunches of brass shells and blew out the gun chambers and clicked shells into them, his face stern and heavy and folded in upon the gnawing bitterness there. ‘Leave us alone,’ he kept muttering, his hands flying away from him suddenly, uncontrolled. ‘Leave us blame along, why don’t they?’

      ‘Willie, Willie.’

      ‘You too – you too.’ And he gave her the same look, and a pressure of his hatred touched her mind.

      Outside the window the boys gabbled to each other. ‘White as milk, she said. White as milk.’

      ‘White as a stone, like chalk you write with.’

      Willie plunged out of the house. ‘You children come inside. I’m locking you up. You ain’t seeing no white man, you ain’t talking about them, you ain’t doing nothing. Come on now.’

      ‘But, Daddy –’

      He shoved them through the door and went and fetched a bucket of paint and a stencil and from the garage a long thick hairy rope coil into which he fashioned a hangman’s knot, very carefully, watching the sky while his hands felt their way at their task.

      And then they were in the car, leaving bolls of dust behind them down the road. ‘Slow up, Willie.’

      ‘This is no slowing-up time,’ he said. ‘This is a hurrying time, and I’m hurrying.’

      All along the road people were looking up in the sky, or climbing in their cars, or riding in cars, and guns were sticking up out of some cars like telescopes sighting all the evils of a world coming to an end.

      She looked at the guns. ‘You been talking,’ she accused her husband.

      ‘That’s what I been doing,’ he grunted, nodding. He watched the road, fiercely. ‘I stopped at every house and I told them what to do, to get their guns, to get paint, to bring rope and be ready. And here we all are, the welcoming committee, to give them the key to the city. Yes, sir!’

      She pressed her thin dark hands together to push away the terror growing in her now, and she felt the car bucket and lurch around other cars. She heard the voices yelling, Hey Willie, look! and hands holding up ropes and guns as they rushed by! and mouths smiling at them in the swift rushing.

      ‘Here we are,’ said Willie, and braked the car into dusty halting and silence. He kicked the door open with a big foot and, laden with weapons, stepped out, lugging them across the airport meadow.

      ‘Have you thought, Willie?’

      ‘That’s all I done for twenty years. I was sixteen when I left Earth, and I was glad to leave,’ he said. ‘There wasn’t anything there for me or you or anybody like us. I’ve never been sorry I left. We’ve had peace here, the first time we ever drew a solid breath. Now, come on.’

      He pushed through the dark crowd which came to meet him.

      ‘Willie, Willie, what we gonna do?’ they said.

      ‘Here’s a gun,’ he said. ‘Here’s a gun. Here’s another.’ He passed them out with savage jabs of his arms. ‘Here’s a pistol. Here’s a shotgun.’

      The people were so close together it looked like one dark body with a thousand arms reaching out to take the weapons. ‘Willie, Willie.’

      His wife stood tall and silent by him, her fluted lips pressed shut, and her large eyes wet and tragic. ‘Bring the paint,’ he said to her. And she lugged a gallon can of yellow paint across the field to where, at that moment, a trolley car was pulling up, with a fresh-painted sign on its front, TO THE WHITE MAN’S LANDING, full of talking people who got off and ran across the meadow, stumbling, looking up. Women with picnic boxes, men with straw hats, in shirt sleeves. The streetcar stood humming and empty. Willie climbed up, set the paint cans down, opened them, stirred the paint, rested a brush, drew forth a stencil and climbed up on a seat.

      ‘Hey, there!’ the conductor came around behind him, his coin changer jangling. ‘What do you think you’re doing? Get down off there!’

      ‘You see what I’m doing. Keep your shirt on.’

      And Willie began the stencilling in yellow paint. He dabbed on an F and an O and an R with terrible pride in his work. And when he finished it the conductor squinted up and read the fresh glinting yellow words, FOR WHITES: REAR SECTION. He read it again. FOR WHITES. He blinked. REAR SECTION. The conductor looked at Willie and began to smile.

      ‘Does that suit you?’ asked Willie, stepping down.

      Said the conductor, ‘That suits