Free The Toynbee Convector by Ray Bradbury Page A

said.
    And then, there was the locomotive charging on us with fire and tight and a sound like a black storm, clouds following it. Out of boxcars red and green lanterns swung and in the boxcars were snorts and screams and yells. Elephants stepped down and cages rolled and everything mixed around until, in the first tight, the animals and men were marching, Red Tongue and I with them, through the town, out to tine meadowlands where every grass blade was a white crystal and every bush rained if you touched it.
    “Just think, RX,” I said. “One minute there’s nothing there but land. And now look at it.”
    We looked. The big tent bloomed out like one of those Japanese flowers in cold water. Lights flashed on. In half an hour there were pancakes frying somewhere and people laughing.
    We stood looking at everything. I put my hand on my chest and felt my heart thumping my fingers like those trick shop palpitators you buy for two bits. All I wanted to do was look and smell.
    “Home for breakfast!” cried RT and knocked me down so he got a head start running. “Tuck your tongue in and wash your face,” said Mom, looking up from her kitchen stove.
    “Pancakes!” I said, amazed at her intuition.
    “How was the circus?” Father lowered his newspaper and looked over it at me.
    “Swell,” I said. “Boy!”
    I washed my face in cold tap water and scraped my chair out just as Mom set the pancakes down. She handed me the syrup jug. “Float them,” she said.
    While I was chewing, Father adjusted the paper in his hands and sighed. “I don’t know what it’s coming to.”

“You shouldn’t read the paper in the morning,” Mom said. “It ruins your digestion.”
    “Look at this,” cried Father, flicking the paper with his finger. “Germ warfare, atom bomb, hydrogen bomb. That’s all you read!”
    “Personally,” said Mother, “I’ve a big washing this week.”
    Father frowned. “That’s what’s wrong with the world; people on a powder keg doing their wash.” He sat up and leaned forward. “Why it says here this morning, they’ve got a new atom bomb that would wipe Chicago clean off the map. And as for our town—nothing left but a smudge. The thing I keep thinking is it’s a darn shame.”
    “What?” I asked.
    “Here we’ve taken a million years to get where we are. We build towns and build cities out of nothing. Why, a hundred years ago, this town wasn’t nowhere to be seen.
    Took a lot of time and sweat and trouble, and now we’ve got it all one brick on another and what happens? BANG !”
    “It won’t happen to us, I bet,” I said.
    “No?” Father snorted. “Why not?”
    “It just couldn’t” I said.
    “You two leave oft” Mom nodded at me. “You’re too young to understand.” She nodded at Pop. “You’re old enough to know better.” We ate in silence. Then I said to Pop, “What was it like before this town was here?”
    “Nothing at all. Just the lake and the hills is all.”
    “Indians?”
    “Not many around here. Just empty woods and hills is all.”

“Pass the syrup,” said Mom.
    * * *
    “Whambo!” cried RT “I’m an atom bomb! Boom!”
    We were waiting in line at the Elite theater. It was the biggest day of the year. We had lugged pop all morning at the circus to earn show tickets. Now, in the afternoon, we were seeing cowboys and Indians on the movie screen, and, this evening, the circus itself! We felt rich and we laughed all the time. RT kept squinting through his atomic ring, yelling, “Whoom! You’re dis integrated!”
    Cowboys chased Indians across the screen. Half an hour later the Indians chased the cowboys back the other way. After everybody was tired of stomping, the cartoon came on, and then a newsreel.
    “Look, the atom bomb!” RT settled down for the first time. The big gray cloud lifted on the screen, blew apart, battleships and cruisers burst open and rain fell.
    RT held my arm tight, staring up at the burning whiteness. “Ain’t that something,