The Illustrated Man. Ray Bradbury

Giraffes – giraffes. Death and death.

      That last. He chewed tastelessly on the meat that the table had cut for him. Death thoughts. They were awfully young, Wendy and Peter, for death thoughts. Or, no, you were never too young really. Long before you knew what death was you were wishing it on someone else. When you were two years old you were shooting people with cap pistols.

      But this – the long, hot African veld – the awful death in the jaws of a lion. And repeated again and again.

      ‘Where are you going?’

      He didn’t answer Lydia. Preoccupied, he let the lights glow softly on ahead of him, extinguish behind him as he padded to the nursery door. He listened against it. Far away, a lion roared.

      He unlocked the door and opened it. Just before he stepped inside, he heard a far-away scream. And then another roar from the lions, which subsided quickly.

      He stepped into Africa. How many times in the last year had he opened this door and found Wonderland, Alice, the Mock Turtle, or Aladdin and his Magical Lamp, or Jack Pumpkinhead of Oz, or Dr Doolittle, or the cow jumping over a very real-appearing moon – all the delightful contraptions of a make-believe world. How often had he seen Pegasus flying in the sky ceiling, or seen fountains of red fireworks, or heard angel voices singing. But now, this yellow hot Africa, this bake oven with murder in the heat. Perhaps Lydia was right. Perhaps they needed a little vacation from the fantasy which was growing a bit too real for ten-year-old children. It was all right to exercise one’s mind with gymnastic fantasies, but when the lively child mind settled on one pattern …? It seemed that, at a distance, for the past month, he had heard lions roaring, and smelled their strong odour seeping as far away as his study door. But, being busy, he had paid it no attention.

      George Hadley stood on the African grassland alone. The lions looked up from their feeding, watching him. The only flaw to the illusion was the open door through which he could see his wife, far down the dark hall, like a framed picture, eating her dinner abstractedly.

      ‘Go away,’ he said to the lions.

      They did not go.

      He knew the principle of the room exactly. You sent out your thoughts. Whatever you thought would appear.

      ‘Let’s have Aladdin and his lamp,’ he snapped.

      The veldland remained, the lions remained.

      ‘Come on, room! I demand Aladdin!’ he said.

      Nothing happened. The lions mumbled in their baked pelts.

      ‘Aladdin!’

      He went back to dinner. ‘The fool room’s out of order,’ he said. ‘It won’t respond.’

      ‘Or –’

      ‘Or what?’

      ‘Or it can’t respond,’ said Lydia, ‘because the children have thought about Africa and lions and killing so many days that the room’s in a rut.’

      ‘Could be.’

      ‘Or Peter’s set it to remain that way.’

      ‘Set it?’

      ‘He may have got into the machinery and fixed something.’

      ‘Peter doesn’t know machinery.’

      ‘He’s a wise one for ten. That IQ of his –’

      ‘Nevertheless –’

      ‘Hello, Mom. Hello, Dad.’

      The Hadleys turned. Wendy and Peter were coming in the front door, cheeks like peppermint candy, eyes like bright blue agate marbles, a smell of ozone on their jumpers from their trip in the helicopter.

      ‘You’re just in time for supper,’ said both parents.

      ‘We’re full of strawberry ice cream and hot dogs,’ said the children, holding hands. ‘But we’ll sit and watch.’

      ‘Yes, come tell us about the nursery,’ said George Hadley.

      The brother and sister blinked at him and then at each other. ‘Nursery?’

      ‘All about Africa and everything,’ said the father with false joviality.

      ‘I don’t understand,’ said Peter.

      ‘Your mother and I were just travelling through Africa with rod and reel; Tom Swift and his Electric Lion,’ said George Hadley.

      ‘There’s no Africa in the nursery,’ said Peter simply.

      ‘Oh, come on, Peter. We know better.’

      ‘I don’t remember any Africa,’ said Peter to Wendy. ‘Do you?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Run see and come tell.’

      She obeyed.

      ‘Wendy, come back here!’ said George Hadley, but she was gone. The house lights followed her like a flock of fireflies. Too late, he realized he had forgotten to lock the nursery door after his last inspection.

      ‘Wendy’ll look and come tell us,’ said Peter.

      ‘She doesn’t have to tell me, I’ve seen it.’

      ‘I’m sure you’re mistaken, Father.’

      ‘I’m not, Peter. Come along now.’

      But Wendy was back. ‘It’s not Africa,’ she said breathlessly.

      ‘We’ll see about this,’ said George Hadley, and they all walked down the hall together and opened the nursery door.

      There was a green, lovely forest, a lovely river, a purple mountain, high voices singing, and Rima, lovely and mysterious, lurking in the trees with colourful flights of butterflies, like animated bouquets, lingering in her long hair. The African veldland was gone. The lions were gone. Only Rima was here now, singing a song so beautiful that it brought tears to your eyes.

      George Hadley looked in at the changed scene. ‘Go to bed,’ he said to the children.

      They opened their mouths.

      ‘You heard me,’ he said.

      They went off to the air closet, where a wind sucked them like brown leaves up the flue to their slumber rooms.

      George Hadley walked through the singing glade and picked up something that lay in the corner near where the lions had been. He walked slowly back to his wife.

      ‘What is that?’ she asked.

      ‘An old wallet of mine,’ he said.

      He showed it to her. The smell of hot grass was on it and the smell of a lion. There were drops of saliva on it, it had been chewed, and there were blood smears on both sides.

      He closed the nursery door and locked it, tight.

      In the middle of the night he was still awake and he knew his wife was awake. ‘Do you think Wendy changed it?’ she said at last, in the dark room.

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘Made it from a veld into a forest and put Rima there instead of lions?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘I don’t know. But it’s staying locked until I find out.’

      ‘How did your wallet get there?’

      ‘I don’t know anything,’ he said, ‘except that I’m beginning to be sorry we bought that room for the children. If children are neurotic at all, a room like that –’

      ‘It’s supposed to help them work off their neuroses in a healthful way.’

      ‘I’m starting to wonder.’ He stared at the ceiling.

      ‘We’ve