Now and Forever by Ray Bradbury Page A

temperatures.”
    â€œHow long will we travel?” I asked.
    â€œTen years,” came the answer.
    â€œMy God, how boring,” I said.
    â€œNo,” said Quell, “for see how your God sends His meteors to entertain us.”
    â€œMeteor strike!” a voice cried. “Deck seven. All hands report!”
    We ran. All ran to the sounds of bells and klaxons and worked to repair the ship’s hull.
    And at last I stood, back inside the hatch, taking off my helmet along with the rest of the crew.
    And so it went, day in, day out—our ship hurtling through space, each of us with his assigned task, measuring, scanning, calculating, plotting a safe course among the broken stars.
    And yet, with all this happening, still, after forty days out in space, not once did we see our captain. He stayed locked up in his cabin. But sometimes, at three or so in the deep morning, I heard the hiss of the elevator shaft, like a long, drawn-out sigh, and knew he was passing, rising up from the interior living and work levels to the outermost deck of his great ship, restricted to all but our ghost leader.
    We all listened and heard.
    In private, Downs said, “What does he do, up there? I hear he suits up, goes out alone, tethered by just one line.”
    Someone answered, “Fool, he plays games with meteors, reaching out as if to catch them, even though he cannot possibly see them coming.”
    And Quell added, “He shows no trust in our radar screens. Blind, he thinks he sees clearer and beyond the human eye.”
    â€œSees what?” I asked. “Quell, you catch his thoughts. What?”
    Quell was silent for a few moments, then said, “My mind hears, but the captain’s mouth must speak. It is not for me to say. When he finds what he searches for, he will let us know. He—”
    Suddenly Quell put his strange hands to his face, and from far off we heard the captain’s cry over the intercom.
    â€œNo, no!” Quell yelled, and fell to his knees. He collapsed before us, and contorted one of his hands into a fist, eyes shut.
    Quell shook his fists at the unseen stars. “Gah!” cried Quell, as if possessed. “No more of this, no more!”
    And, suddenly, all was quiet. No sound came from the intercom, and Quell’s arm dropped to the deck. He stood, weakened, shaken by this strange thing that had happened.
    I went to my friend. “Quell,” I said. “Tell me what just happened. That was not you, was it? That was the captain. You knew the captain’s mind, you acted as he did, yes?”
    â€œNo,” said Quell, quietly.
    â€œYes,” I insisted. “You have no reason to defy the stars. It was he who raised his fist at the universe.”
    But Quell refused to respond, turning his gaze upward instead.
    Â 
    From First Mate John Redleigh’s log: Fifty days out. Correction: twelve hundred hours out from Earth. Student, do your sums. Computer, electro-psychoanalyze my soul. Thrust your finger, First Mate Redleigh, in a computer socket. What would you find? John Redleigh, born 2050, Reedwater, Wisconsin. Father, a maker of outboard motors. Mother, a baker of children, a dozen in all, of which the plainest of plain bread is old John Redleigh. Old, I say. Old when I was ten, long gone in senility by thirteen. Married a fine plain woman at twenty-two; filled the nursery by twenty-five. Read occasional books, thought occasional thoughts. Ah, God, Redleigh, haven’t you more to put in this damn machine? Are you so stale, flat, unbumped, untouched, unscarred, unmoved? Have you no nightmare dreams, secret murders, drugs, or drink in your soul? Is your heart missing, the pulse spent? Did you give over when you were thirty, or were you ever more than a dry biscuit, an unbuttered bun, flat wine? Pleasantly sensual, but never passionate. A good husband, fair friend, far traveler, without worry, coming and going so quietly that God himself never