MORGUE SHIP by Ray Bradbury

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I have no proprietary interest in that at all. Weird weirding Way Media presents astounding taunts of the public. Do the public door below below Morgue Ship by Ray Bradbury. He heard the starpoort grind open in the movement of the middle claws groping into space, and then the starboard closed there was another dead man aboard the constellation. Sam Burnett shook his long head and trying to think clearly, palette and quiet.

Three bodies lay on the cold, transparent tables around him. Machine stirred, revolved, hum. He didn't see them, He didn't see anything but a red haze over his mind. It boughted up the far wall of the laboratory, where the shelves went up and down, numbered in scarlet, keeping the bodies of soldiers from all further harm. Burnett didn't move.

He stood there in his rumbled white surgical gown, staring in his fingers, gloved and bone, white rubber, feeling all tight and wild, insigne himself. He went on for days, moving the ship, opening the star port, extending the retriever claw, plucking some poor warrior's body out of the void. He didn't like it anymore. Ten years is too long to go back and forth from Earth to nowhere. He came out empty, and you went back full, cargoed with a lot of warriors who didn't laugh or talk or smoke, who just lay on their shelves, all one hundred of them, waiting for a decent burial coming matter of fact and slow Rice's voice from the ceiling radio hit Burnett number ninety eight.

Burnett repeated, working on ninety five, ninety six, and ninety seven. Now blood pumps, preservative, slight surgery off a million miles away. His voice was talking, It sounded deep. It didn't belong to him anymore. Rice said, boy body, two more pickups and then back to New York for me a ten day drop.

Burnett peeled the gloves off his huge red soft hands, slapped them into a floor incinerator, mouth back to Earth, then spin around and shoot right out again in the trail of the war rockets that blasted one another in a galactic fury, to sidle up behind gutted wrecks of ships, salvaging any body still intact after the conflict, two men, Rice and himself sharing a cozy morgue ship with a hundred other men who had forgotten quite suddenly, however, to talk again. Ten years of it, every hour of those ten years, eating like maggots inside, working out to the surface of Burnett's face, working under the husk of his starved eyes and starved limbs, starved for life, starved for action. This would be his last trip, or he'd know the reason why.

Sam Burnett jerked. Ryce's voice clipped through the drainage. Preservative lamb bounded against glass. Sight retorts echoed from the refrigerator shelves. Brenett stared at the tabled bodies as if they would leap to life, even while preservative was being pumped into their veins.

Sam on the double up the rungs, Burnett closed his eyes and set a couple of words firmly. Nothing was worth running for any more another body. There had been one hundred thousand bodies preceding it. Nothing unusual about a body with blood cooling in it. Shaking his head, he walked unsteadily toward the rungs that gleamed up into the air locked control room sector of the rocket.

He climbed without making any noise on the rungs. He kept thinking the one thing he couldn't forget. You never catch up with the war. All the color is ahead of you, the drive of orange rocket traces across the stars, the whamming of steel nosed bombs into a lusive targets, the Titanic explosions in breathless pursuits, the flags and the excited glory are always a million miles ahead. He bit his teeth together.

You never catch up with the war. You come along when space has settled, back when the vacuum has stopped trembling from unleashed forces between worlds. You come along in the dark quiet of death to find the wreckage plunging with all the fury of its original acceleration in no particular direction. You can only see it. You don't hear anything in space but your own heart kicking your ribs.

You see bodies, each in its own terrific orbit, even impetus, by grinding collisions, tossed from mother ships and dancing head over feet forever and forever with no goal, bits of flesh and ruptured spacesuits, mouths open for air that had never been there in a hundred billion centuries. And they kept dancing without music until you extended the retriever claw and culled them into the airlock. That was all the war glory. He got nothing but the stunned, shivering silence, the memory of rockets long gone, and the shelves filling up all too quickly with men who had once loved laughing. You wondered who all the men were, and who the next ones would be after ten years.

You made yourself blind to them. You went around doing your job with mechanical hands, but even a machine breaks down. Sam Rice turned swiftly as Burnett dragged himself up the ladder, red and warm. Rice's face hovered over the body of a sprawled enemy official. Take a look at this.

Burnett caught his breath, his eyes narrowed. There was something wrong with the body. His experienced glance knew that he didn't know what it was. Maybe it was because the body looked a little too dead. Burnett didn't say anything, but he climbed the rest of the way, stood quietly in the gray metal air lock.

The enemy official was as delicately made as a fine white spider. Eyelids closed were faintly blue. The hair was thin, silken strands of pale gold waved and close to a vain skull. Where the thin lipped mouth fell open, a cluster of needle tipped teeth glittered. The fragile body was enclosed completely in a milk pale syntha silk, A holstered gun at the middle.

Burnett rubbed his jaw well. Rice exploded. His eyes were hot in his young, sharp cut face, hot and black. Good lord, Sam, do you know what this is? Burnett scowled uneasily and said, no, it's l Rice retorted, Burnett said, Lethela, and then oh, yes, Crier's major domo that right.

Don't say it comes, Sam, say it big, Say it big. If Lethela is here in space, then Crier's not far away from him. Burnett shrugged. More bodies, more people, more war What the hell? What the hell?

He was tired talking about bodies and rulers to someone else. Rice grabbed him by the shoulders. Snap out of it, Sam, think Cryer the Almighty in our territory, his right hand man dead. That means Crier was in an accident too. Sam opened his thin lips and the words fell out all by themselves.

Look, Rice, you're new at this game. I've been at it ever since the Venus Earth mess started. It's been c sawing back and forth since the day you played Hooky in the tenth grade. And I've been in the thick of it. When there's nothing left but seared memories, I'll be prowling through the void, picking up warriors and taking them back to the good green Earth.

Grizzly, Yes, but it's routine. As for Crier, if he's anywhere around, he's smart. Every precaution is taken to protect that one. But left la his body must mean something. And if it does have we got guns aboard the Morgue ship.

Are we a battle cruiser to go against him? We'll radio for help. Yeah, if there's a warship within our radio range seven hundred thousand miles, we'll get it. Unfortunately, the tide of battle has swept out past Earth in a new war. Concerning io out Rice, Rice stood about three inches below Sam Burnette, six foot one, jaw, hard and determined.

He stared at Sam, a funny light in his eyes. His fingers twitched all by themselves at his sides. His mouth twisted and went hell of a patriot, Sam Burnette. Burnette reached out with one long finger, tapped it quietly on Rice's barrel chest. Haul a cargo of corpses for three thousand nights and days, and see how patriotic you feel.

All those fine muscled lads bloated and crushed by space pressures and heat blasts, Fine lads who start out smiling and get the smile burned off down to the bone. Burnett swallowed and didn't say anything more, but he closed his eyes. He stood there, smelling the death odor in the hot air of the ship, hearing the chu chunk of the blood pumps down below. In his own heart, waiting warm and heavy at the base of his throat. This is my last cargo, Rice, I can't take it any longer, and I don't care much how I get back to Earth.

This Venusian here, what's his name, Lethla, he's number ninety eight. Shoved me into shelf ninety nine beside him, and get the hell home. That's how I feel. Rice was going to say something, but he didn't have time. Lethla was alive.

He rose from the floor with slow, easy movements, almost like a dream. He didn't say anything. The heat blast in his white fingers did all the necessary talking. It didn't say anything, either, but Burnett knew what language it would use if it had to. Burnett swallowed hard.

The body had looked funny, too, dead. Now he knew why. Involuntarily, Burnett moved forward. Lethla moved like a pale spider, flicking his fragile arm to cover Burnett, the gun in it like a dead cold star. Rice sucked in his breath.

Burnett forced him to take it easy. From the corners of his eyes, he saw Rice's expression go deep and tight, biting lines into his sharp face. Rice got it out finally, how'd you do it? He demanded bitterly. How'd you live in the void?

It's impossible? A crazy thought came ramming down and exploded in Burnette's head. You never catch up with the war. But what if the war catches up with you? What inhale would Lethela be wanting?

Aboard a Morgue ship, Lethela half crouched in the midst of the smell of death and the chugging of blood pumps below. In the silence, he reached up with quick fingers, tapped a tiny crystal stud upon the back of his head, and the halves of a microscopically thin chrysalis parted transparently off of his face. He shucked it off, trailing air tendrils that had been inserted hidden in the uniform, ending in thin globules of oxygen. He spoke triumph, formed his crystal thin voice. That's how I did it to Earthman, glass sight, said Rice, a face molded mask of glass sight Lethla nodded.

His milk blue eyes dilated very marvelously. A paired to an unbreakable thickness of one thirtieth of an inch, one only on the head. You have to look quickly to notice it, and unfortunately, viewed as you saw it outside the ship, floating in the void, not discernible at all. Prickles of sweat appeared on Ryce's face. He swore at the Venusian, and the Venusian laughed like some sort of stringed instrument, high and quick.

Brenette laughed too, ironically. First time in years a man ever came aboard the Constellation alive. It's a welcome change. Lefla showed his needle like teeth. I thought it might be where's your radio?

Go find it, snapped Rice hotly. I will one hand blue veined on the ladder rungs. Lethla paused, I know your weaponless purple cross regulations, and this airlock is safe. Don't move, whispering his naked feet padded white up the ladder. Two long breaths later, something crashed metal and glass coils the radio.

Burnett put his shoulder blades against the wall metal, looking at his feet when he glanced up. Rice's fresh animated face was spoiled by the new bitterness in it. Lethla came down like a breath of air on the rungs. He smiled. That's better.

Now we can talk. Rice said it low. Interplanetary law declares it straight. Lethla, get out. Only dead men belong here.

Lethelo's gun grip tightened. More talk of that nature, and only dead men there will be. He blinked. But first we must rescue crier. Crier writ actor, as if he had been hit in the jar.

Burnett moved his tongue back and forth on his lips silently, his eyes littered, listening to the two of them as if they were a radio drama. Lethelo's voice came next, rather unfortunately. Yes, he's still alive, heading toward Venus at an orbital velocity of two thousand mph, wearing one of these they are chrysolie enough air for two more hours. Our flagship was attacked unexpectedly yesterday near Mars. We were forced to take the lifeboats, scattering Crier and I in one, the others sacrificing their lives to cover our escape.

We were lucky we got through the earth caught an unseen but luck can't last forever. We saw your Morgue ship an hour ago. It's a long long way to Venus. We were running out of fuel, food, water, radio was broken. Capture was certain you were coming our way.

We took the chance. We set a small time bomb to destroy the life rocket and cast off, wearing our Chrysollie helmets. It was the first time we had ever tried using them to trick anyone. We knew you wouldn't know we were alive until it was too late, and we controlled your ship. We knew you picked up all the bodies for beeping sands returning alien corpses to space.

Later, Ryce's voice was sullen, a setter for you, huh. Traveling under the protection of the Purple Cross, you can get you damn all might safe to Venus. Luffler bowed slightly over, suspect a more rocket of providing safe hiding for precious Venusian cargo. Precious is the word for you, brother, said Rice. Enough.

Luffler moved his gun several inches accelerate towards Venus. Motor Detective's wide open crier must be picked up now, Rice didn't move. Burnett moved first, feeling alive for the first time in years. Sure, said Sam, smiling, we'll pick him up. No tricks, said Lethla.

Burnett scowled and smiled together. No tricks. You'll have Crier on board the constellation in a half hour, or I'm no corner. Follow me up the ladder. Lethla danced up, turned waved his gun.

Come on. Burnette went up quick, almost as if he enjoyed doing Lethla a favor. Rice crumbled and cursed after him. On the way up. Burnette thought about it about Lethela poised like a white feather at the top, holding death in his hand.

You never knew whose body would come into the starboard. Next number ninety eight was Lethla. Number ninety nine would be Crier. There were two shelves, numbered and empty. They should be filled, and what more proper than that Crier and Lethla should fill them.

But he chewed his lip. That would need a bit of doing. Even then the cargo wouldn't be full. Still, one more body to get one hundred, and you never knew who it would be. He came out of his quick thoughts when he looped his long leg over the whole rim, stepped up, faced lethela in a cramped control room that was one glittering swirl of silver levers, audio plates and visuals.

Chronometers clicking told of the steady dropping towards the sun at a slow pace. Burnett set his teeth together, bone against bone. Help Crier escape, see him safely to Venus, and then be freed. Sounded easy, wouldn't be hard. Venusians weren't blind with malice rice, and he could come out alive if they cooperated.

But there are a lot of warriors sleeping on a lot of numbered shelves in the dim corridors of the long years, and their dead lips were stirring to life in Burnett's ears. Not so easily could they be ignored? You may never catch up with the war again. The last trip. Yes, this could be it.

Capture Crier, end of the war. But what ridiculous fantasy was it made him believe he could actually do it. Two muscles moved on Burnett, one in each long cheek. The sag and his body vanished as he tautened. His spine, flexed, his lean, sinewed arms, wet, thin lips.

Now, where do you want this crate, he asked, Lethla easily Lethlei's hald softly in cooperation. I like it. You're wise earth man, very, said Burnett. He was thinking about three thousand eternal knights, of young bodies being ripped, slaughtered, flung to the vacuum tides, ten years of hating a job and hoping that someday there would be a last trip and it would all be over. Burnett laughed through his nose.

Controls moved under his fingers like fluid loved, caressed, tended by familial touching. Looking ahead, he squinted, there's your ruler now, Lethla doing somersaults looks dead. Good trick, cut power. I don't want to burn him. Burnett cut criers milky face floated dreamily into a visual screen, eyes sealed, lips gaping, hands sagging, clutching emptily at the stars.

We're about fifty miles from him. Catching up, Burnette turned to Lethela with an intense scowl. Funny, this was the first and the last time anybody would ever board the constellation alive. His stomach went flat, tautened with sudden weakening fear. If Crier could be captured.

That meant the end of the war, the end of shells stacked with sleeping warriors, the end of this blind searching Crier then had to be taken aboard. After that Crier, the Almighty, at whose behest all space had quivered like a smitten gon for part of a century. Crier revolving in his neat water blue uniform emblem shining gold heat gun tucked in a glossy jet holster, with Crier aboard, chances of overcoming him would be eliminated. Now Rice and Burnett against Lethela. Lethla favored because of his gun.

Crier would make odds and Paul something had to be done before Crier came in. Lethel had to be yanked off guard, shocked, bewildered, fooled somehow, but how Burnett's jaws froze tight. He could feel a spot on his shoulder blade where Lethel would send a bullet crashing into rib sinew artery heart. There was a way, and there was a weapon, and the war would be over, and this would be the last trip. Sweat covered his palms in a nervous smear.

Steady Rice, he said, matter of factly, with the rocket's cut. There was too much silence in his voice. Sounded guilty, standing up alone in the center of that silence. Take controls, Rice, I'll manipulate the star poart. Burnett slipped from the control console.

Rice replaced him grimly. Brenets strode to the next console of levers. That spot on his back kept aching like it was sere branded X for the place where the bullet sings and ribs and if you turn quick, catching it in the arm first Why Crier loomed bigger, a white spider delicately dancing on a web of stars. His eyes flicked open behind the glass eyed sheath and saw the constellation. Crier smiled, his hands came up.

He knew he was about to be rescued. Brenett smiled right back at him. What Crier didn't know was that he was about to end at ten Years' War. There was only one way of drawing lethelo off guard, and it had to be fast. Brenett jabbed a purple topped stud.

The starpoort clashed open, as it had done a thousand times before, but for the first time it was a good sound, and out of the starport at Sam Burnett's easily fingered directions slid the long clawlike mechanism that picked up bodies from space. Lethelo watched, intent and cold and quiet. The gun was cold and quiet too. The clow glided toward Crier without a sound, now dreamlike in its slowness, It reached Cryer. Brenett inhaled a deep breath.

The metal clock cuddled Crier in its shiny palm. Lethlo watched. He watched while Bernett exiled, touched another lever and said, you know, Lefla, there's an old saying that only dead men come aboard the constellation. I believe it. And the claw closed as Burnett spoke, closed slowly and certainly all around Crier, crushing him into a ridiculous posture of silence.

It was blood running on the claw, and the only recognizable part was the head, which was carefully preserved for identification. That was the only way to draw lethel off guard. Burnett spun about and leaped. The horror on Leathles's face didn't go away as he fired his gun. Rice came in fighting too, but not before something like a red hot ramrod stab sam Burnette, catching him in the ribs, spinning him back like a drunken idiot to fall in a corner.

Fist made blunt flesh noises. Lethlo went down, weaponless and screaming. Rice kicked. After a while, Lethlock with screaming, and the room swam around in Burnett's eyes, and he closed them tight and started laughing. He didn't finish laughing for maybe ten minutes.

He heard the retreat her claws come inside, and the starboard grind shut out of the red darkness. Rice's voice came, and then he could see Rice's young face over him. Burnett groaned. Rice said, Sam, you shouldn't have done it. You shouldn't have Sam, to hell with it.

Burnett winced and fraud to keep his own eyes open. Something wet and sticky covered his chest. I said this was my last trip, and I meant it one way or another, i'd have to quit. This is the hard way. Maybe I don't know.

Kind of nice to think of all those kids will never have to come aboard the constellation, though, Rice, his voice trailed off. You watched the shelves fill up, and you never know who'll be next. Who would have thought four days ago something happened to his tongue, so it felt like hard ice blocking his mouth. He had a lot more words to say, but only a few time to get a few of them out. Rice.

Yes, we haven't got a full cargo boy, full enough for me, sir, but still not full. If we went back to center base without filling the shelves, it wouldn't be right. Look here, number ninety eight is lefla. Ninety nine is crier. Three thousand days of rolling the rocket and not once come back without a bunch of kids who want to sleep easy on the good greener.

Not right going back anyway, But the way we used to His voice got all full of fog, as thick as the fists of a dozen warriors. Rice was going away from him. Rice was standing still, and Burnette was lying down, not moving. But somehow Rice was going away a million miles. Ain't I went?

Hell of a patriot? Rice. Then everything got dark except Ryce's face, and that was starting to dissolve. Ninety eight lefla, ninety nine crier. He could still see Rice standing over it for a long time, breathing out an in Down under the tables, the blood pumps pulsed and pulsed, thick and slow.

Rice looked down at Burnette, and then at the empty shelf at the far end of the room, and then back at Burnette again, and then he said softly, one hundred. This episode performed and produced by Father Malone. Music by each Peek