蓝瓶子

The Blue Bottle
作者：[美]雷·布雷德伯里 (Ray Bradbury)
译者：Ent

日晷已经崩塌成白色的石子。天空的鸟儿如今飞翔在岩石和沙漠的古老穹顶之下，深深掩埋，歌声不再。沙尘的激流冲刷着死去的海床，时不时在风的催促下淹没陆地，重演古老的洪水传说。城市埋藏在沉默的谷仓之间，时间在此储存和保管；而静默和回忆则汇聚成水池和喷泉。

火星死了。

接着，从遥远的天边，冲破广阔的停滞，传来小小的蚊蚋之声。逐渐变大，穿过朱红色的群山之间，进入阳光炙烤的空气中，最后大路颤抖，古老的城市里尘埃微不可闻地悄然落下。

声音停止了。

微光闪烁的沉默正午，阿伯特·贝克和列纳德·克莱格坐在一辆古老的陆地车里，望向一座死去的城市。城市没有在他们的凝视下动摇，却等待着他们的呼喊。

“哈罗！”

一座水晶塔翩然坠落成柔软的尘雨。

“那边的！”

另一座倾倒在地。

随着贝克的呼喊，一座又一座塔楼听从死亡的召唤而倒下。就像是巨大花岗岩羽翼的石头动物，以蹒跚的飞翔俯冲向庭院和喷泉。他像召唤活物一样向它们呼喊，它们也回应了，咕哝，裂开，斜倚，倾倒，颤抖，犹豫，然后劈裂空气，扫向地面。嘴唇苦涩，眼神空洞，但尖锐而永远饥渴的牙齿却突然如弹片一般弹射出去，散落在地砖上。贝克等待着。没有更多的塔倒下了。

“可以安全地进去了。”

克莱格没有动。“还是同样的原因？”

贝克点头。

“就为了个天杀的瓶子！我不能理解。为什么每个人都想要它？”

贝克迈出车门。“那些找到的人，他们什么都没说，什么都没解释。但是——它很古老。老得和沙漠一样，和死海一样——而它里面可以包含任何东西。传说是这么讲的。而因为它可以包含任何东西——这就激发了人的渴望。”

“你的，不是我的。”克莱格说。他的嘴几乎没动，眼睛半眯着，似乎觉得有点好笑。他伸了个懒腰。“我就是跟着走一遭而已。与其坐在这挨晒还不如看你去干啥。”

贝克在一个月前偶然找到了这辆旧车，当时克莱格还没跟他一起。这车是第一次工业入侵火星的残骸，那次入侵以整个物种继续向群星前进而告终。他修好了发动机，开着它从一座死城到另一座死城，穿越闲散之人、打杂之人、梦想之人和懒惰之人的土地——全都是被太空的退潮席卷的人，和他自己与克莱格差不多的人，从来都没想要好好做什么事情，而发现火星是个很好的不做事的地方。

“五千年，一万年前，火星人创造了蓝瓶子。”贝克说。“以火星玻璃吹制而成，然后遗失，发现，遗失，发现，一遍又一遍。”

他凝视着死城热浪下飘移不定的微光。我的全部生命，贝克想，我没有做过任何事情，什么都没有。其他的、更好的人做了大事，去了水星或者金星或者太阳系以外。除了我。不包括我。但蓝瓶子能改变这一切。

他转身离开无声的车子。

克莱格跟在他后面，似乎很轻松。

“你找这个瓶子，到现在差不多有十年了吧？你睡觉的时候辗转反侧，浑身颤抖着醒来，一整天大汗淋漓。你那么想要那个该死的瓶子，可还不知道里面是什么。你是个傻瓜，贝克。”

“闭嘴，闭嘴。”贝克说，一脚踢飞一小堆卵石。

他们一同走进城市的废墟，迈过碎裂的地砖拼图——一幅石头刺绣，表现的是脆弱的火星生物。久已死去的野兽，它们的兴衰就像一缕微风惊扰了沉默的沙尘。

“等等。”贝克说。他把手围在嘴边，大声喊道：“那边的！”

“……边的”，回声说，然后塔楼倒下了。喷泉和石柱倒塌在自身之上。这就是这些城市的命运。有时候美如交响曲的塔楼会因为一句话而倒塌。就像是看一首巴赫的康塔塔在你眼前分崩离析。片刻过后：尸骨埋于尸骨之中。尘埃落定。还有两座建筑保持完整。

贝克向前走去，朝他的朋友点了点头。

他们进入建筑搜索。

找着找着，克莱格停了下来，嘴边露出一抹微笑。“那个瓶子里，”他说，“是不是有个小小的手风琴姑娘，就像那些锡杯子一样整个折叠了起来，或者像那些日本来的花儿一样，放进水里就绽开了？”

“我不需要女人。”

“也许你需要。也许你从来没拥有过真正的女人，爱你的女人，所以这才是你心底里偷偷希望瓶子里有的东西。”克莱格抿了一下嘴唇。“也可能，在那个瓶子里，有你童年的什么东西。全打成一个微小的包裹——一汪湖水，一棵你爬过的树，绿草地，还有些小虾。听起来如何？”

贝克的眼睛聚焦在远方。“有时候——几乎就是了。过去的地球。我不知道。”

克莱格点点头。“瓶子里的东西，也许取决于是谁在找。嘛，如果里面有几口威士忌的话……”

“接着找。”贝克说。

七间屋子装满了闪亮的东西，瓶子、罐子、篮子、筐子、箱子从地面直堆到天花板，全都是红色、粉色、黄色、紫色和黑色的玻璃制成。贝克有条不紊地把一个又一个摔成碎片，排除在外，免得他将来又得重新一一翻检。

贝克解决了这间屋子，准备入侵另一间。他几乎有点害怕继续。害怕这一次他会找到，搜索将会结束，意义将从他的生命中消失。只是在十年前，他从金星到木星的远行者那里听说了蓝瓶子之后，他的生命才有了目的。这股狂热点燃了他，至今为止依然稳定地燃烧着。如果工作手段恰当，那么找到瓶子的前景也许会把他的全部生命盛满到溢。也许还会再有三十年的搜索，如果他很仔细、但又不是过于勤奋的话。他从来不敢公开承认，自己真正在乎的不是瓶子，而是搜索、奔跑和捕猎，尘埃、城市和旅程。

贝克听见了模糊的声音。他转身费力地走到窗边，向庭院里望去。一辆灰色的小型沙地自行车几乎毫无声响地停在了街道末端。一个金发胖子从弹簧座椅上滑下来，望向城内。另一个寻找者，贝克叹了一口气。成千上万，找了又找。但是脆弱的城市、小镇和村落也有成千上万，全部搜索一遍也许就是一个千年。

“情况如何？”克莱格出现在楼道里。

“不走运。”贝克嗅了一下空气。“你闻到什么了没？”

“啥？”克莱格四处张望。

“闻起来像——波本威士忌。”

“哈！”克莱格笑了。“那是我！”

“你？”

“我刚来了一杯。另一间屋子里找到的。挪了些东西，一堆乱七八糟瓶子，就像往常一样。有个瓶子里有些波本，所以我就不客气了。”

贝克瞪着他，开始颤抖。

“怎么——怎么会有波本威士忌在这里，在火星瓶子里？”他的手冰冷。他缓缓向前迈出一步。“给我看！”

“我确定……”

“给我看，你他妈的！”

就在那里，屋子的角落，一个火星玻璃容器，像天空一样湛蓝，大小如同一只小号水果，在贝克手里如空气般轻灵。贝克把它放回桌上。

“装了半瓶波本。”克莱格说。

“我什么都没看见。”贝克说。

“那摇它一下。”

贝克拿起它，仔细地摇晃。

“听到液体声了？”

“没。”

贝克把它放回桌上。阳光刺透了一扇侧窗，在纤细的容器上照出闪烁的蓝色光亮。这是一颗星星握在手中的那种蓝，是浅浅的海湾在正午的那种蓝，是清晨的钻石那种蓝。

“就是它。”贝克轻声说。“我知道它是。我们不用再找了。我们发现了蓝瓶子。”

克莱格露出怀疑的表情。“你真的没看见里面有东西？”

“没有……但是，”贝克俯下身去，深深地凝视瓶子的蓝色宇宙，“也许如果我打开它、放它出来，里面有什么我就会知道了。”

“我把塞子塞得太紧了。我来吧。”克莱格伸出手去。

“麻烦打扰一下，先生们。”身后的门口传来一个声音。

那个金发胖子走进了他们的视线，手里拿着一把枪。他没有看他们的脸，只盯着蓝色的玻璃瓶。他笑了起来。“我十分讨厌拿枪，”他说，“但是此事迫不得已，因为我必须得到那件艺术品。我建议你们允许我顺顺当当地把它拿走。”

贝克几乎感到高兴。这件意外的时机恰好，简直是美学。这正是他本来会希望的那种事情，在宝藏打开之前就被夺走。而今很可能会有追逐，搏斗，一连串的得与失，而在一切结束之前，也许又会有四五年花在新的搜寻上。

“来吧，”陌生人说，“交出来。”

他举起枪以示警告。

贝克把瓶子递给了他。

“惊人啊。真的很惊人。”胖子说。“我简直不敢相信就这么简单，走进来，听见两个人说话，然后蓝瓶子就这么简单地交到我手里了。太惊人了！”然后他走出大厅，迈入阳光下，轻声笑着。

***

清冷的火星双月照耀下，午夜的城市是尸骨和尘埃。沿着残破的大路，陆地车颠簸起伏、哗啦作响，驶过一座座城市。城里的喷泉，陀螺仪，家具，金属烫边的书籍，绘画，全都已经化为粉尘，和灰泥与虫翼混合在一起。驶过不再是城市的城市，只是被磨碎的纤细粉末，随着来来回回的风，毫无意义地往复绽放，就像巨大沙漏里的沙子，没有止境地垒成又重新垒成金字塔。沉寂打开，让车通过，随后又迅速地在身后关上。

克莱格说，“我们永远找不到他的。这些该死的路。太老了。坑坑洼洼，颠簸不平，没一项对劲的。他的自行车有优势，他能躲闪腾挪。见鬼！”

他们猛然转向，避开一段糟糕路面。车子沿古老的大路行进，有如一只橡皮擦，遇上遮目的土壤，碾过它，驱散尘埃，露出翡翠绿和金色的颜色——古火星人嵌入路中的拼图。

“等等，”贝克喊道。车慢了下来。“我刚才看到了什么东西。”

“哪里？”

他们往回开了一百米。

“那里。你看。是他。”

路边的水沟里，胖子屈身躺在他的自行车上。他一动不动。贝克伸过去一只火炬，他圆睁的眼睛映出沉闷的光芒。

“瓶子呢？”克莱格问。

贝克跳进沟里，捡起那个人的枪。“不知道。没了。”

“他怎么死的？”

“也不知道。”

“车子看起来没问题。不是事故。”

贝克把尸体翻了过来。“没有伤口。看起来他就是——停下了。自己停了。”

“心脏病突发吧，没准。”克莱格说。“拿到瓶子太激动了。他跳下来躲避，以为不会有危险，没想到死在心脏上。”

“这没法解释蓝瓶子的去向。”

“有人经过了呗。苍天啊，你知道路上有多少搜寻者……”

他们环视周围的黑暗。远方，在星空的背景下，蓝色的山丘上，他们看到了模糊的运动。

“那边上面。”贝克指着，“三个人，步行。”

“他们肯定……”

“上帝啊，快看！”

脚下的沟里，胖子的身形开始发光，融化。眼睛仿佛流水冲刷下的月光石。

脸开始融化成火焰。头发变成小爆竹的引线，燃烧起来，劈啪作响。躯体在他们眼前被烟雾笼罩，手指在火焰的灼烧下抽动。接着，仿佛一把巨大的锤子打碎了玻璃雕像，整个躯体破裂成粉色的碎片，在一阵烈焰中化为迷雾，随着夜晚的轻风飘散到大路对面。

“他们肯定——对他做了什么。”克莱格说。“那三个人。什么新型武器。”

“但这以前发生过。”贝克说。“我知道的一些拥有过蓝瓶子的人。他们消失了。瓶子流传到别人手上，他们也消失了。”他摇摇头。“他碎掉的时候就像是千万只萤火虫……”

“你还要追他们吗？”

贝克回到车里。他打量了一下沙丘地貌，尸骨粉末与沉寂堆成的山丘。“不是个简单活儿，但我觉得能把车开上去，尾随他们。必须如此。现在。”他停了一会儿，自言自语：“我想我知道蓝瓶子里是什么了……终于，我明白了，我最想要的东西就在那里。等着我。”

“我不去。”克莱格说，他走到黑暗中的车边上，贝克坐在车里，手放在膝盖上。“我不会和你一起去追那三个武装的人。我只想活下去，贝克。那个瓶子对我来说什么都不是。我可不想为了它拿命冒险。但祝你好运。”

“谢谢，”贝克说。然后他的车驶入了沙丘之中。

***

夜晚凉爽，有如清水流过陆地车的玻璃穹顶。

贝克开足马力，驶过死去的河滩与散落的苍白卵石，驶入两面高耸的悬崖之间。缕缕双重月光把崖壁上诸神和动物的浮雕映成金黄色：几千米高的脸庞，火星的历史以符号蚀刻其上。不可思议的脸庞，睁开的洞穴眼睛和大张的洞穴嘴巴。

引擎的咆哮掀动巨石滚落。石头倾泻而下，古代崖刻的金色片段滑离月光的照射，消失在蓝色的清冷黑夜之中。

贝克开着车，听着咆哮声，回忆过去。过去十年里所有的夜晚，在海底堆起红色篝火的夜晚，煮着缓慢而沉思的晚餐。还有做梦。总是梦见渴求却不知道在渴求什么。自从年轻的时候，地球上的艰难生活，2130年大恐慌，饥饿，混乱，暴动，渴求。然后是在行星之间穿梭，没有女人、没有爱的年头，独身一人的年头。你离开黑暗走入光明，离开子宫走入世界，你到底找到了什么能让你真正地去渴求？

那个沟里的死人呢？他不也是始终在寻找某些特殊的东西吗？他所没有的东西。像他自己这样的人，都有什么东西？或者随便什么人？到底有没有什么东西可以盼望的呢？

蓝瓶子。

一个急刹，跳出车外，端起枪。弓着身子跑进沙丘。在他前面，三个人躺在冰冷的沙地上，干干净净。都是地球人，皮肤黝黑，衣着粗糙，双手枯瘦。蓝瓶子躺在他们中间，映出点点星光。贝克眼看着他们的躯体开始融化，消失，变成蒸汽，露珠和结晶。转瞬之间他们就不见了。

雪花飘过贝克的眼睛，轻触他的嘴唇和脸颊。他感到了来自身体的寒冷。

他没有动。

那个胖子。死了，消失了。克莱格的声音：“什么新型武器。”

不。根本不是武器。

蓝瓶子。

他们打开瓶子，就能发现他们最渴望的东西。多少漫长而孤独的年月里，所有不快乐的人，所有渴求的人，打开它都为的是寻找他们在整个行星宇宙里最渴求的东西。而他们全都找到了。正如这三个人一样。现在可以理解了，为什么瓶子的传递如此迅速，一个接一个，人们随着瓶子的轨迹而消失。秋天的谷糠散落在沙地上，散落在死去海洋的边缘。变成火焰和萤火虫。变成迷雾。

贝克捡起瓶子，远远举着，过了很久。他的眼睛明澈，他的手颤抖。

所以这就是我一直在寻找的，他想。他转动瓶子，瓶壁闪烁着蓝色的星光。所以这就是所有人真正想要的东西？最隐秘的渴望，深埋在心中，悄悄藏在我们永远都猜不到的地方？潜意识的冲动？所以这就是每个人都追寻的，并以私密的罪恶感最终找到的？

死亡。

结束疑虑，折磨，单调，彷徨，孤独，恐惧。结束一切。

所有人？

不。不包括克莱格。克莱格也许要幸运得多。少数人在宇宙中就像动物一样，不问问题，只顾在池边喝水，繁殖，养大后代，对生活的美好没有片刻怀疑。这就是克莱格。有几个他这样的人。巨大保护区里的快乐动物，在上帝的手中，宗教和信仰像一套特殊的神经长在他们身上。千百亿神经质者之中的非神经质者。他们只会在将来才渴望死亡，以自然的方式。不是现在。以后。

贝克举起瓶子。多么简单，他想，多么正确。这正是我一直以来渴求的东西。别无它物。

无物。

瓶子打开，在星光下映成湛蓝。贝克猛吸了一大口蓝瓶子里涌出的空气，深深吸进他的肺里。

我终于找到了，他想。

他放松下来。他觉得身体变得美妙地凉爽，然后是美妙地温暖。他知道他正沿着群星滑落到黑暗之中，如美酒般愉悦的黑暗。他在湛蓝的酒里，纯白的酒里，朱红的酒里，游泳。他的胸口点燃了蜡烛，四肢像轮子一样转动。他的手好像离开了他。腿也飞走了，真好玩。他笑了。他闭上眼睛，笑了。

有生以来第一次，他感到非常快乐。

蓝瓶子落到了凉爽的沙地上。

清晨，克莱格吹着口哨走了过来。他看到瓶子躺在空无一物的白色沙地上，第一缕粉色的朝阳照耀着它。他捡起瓶子，带起一阵狂热的低语——许许多多橙色和紫红色的萤火虫在空气中闪烁了一下，然后消失了。

一切沉寂。

“见鬼。”他向附近城市的死窗望去。“嘿，贝克！”

一座纤细的高塔坍塌成粉末。

“贝克，你的宝藏在这里！我不想要！快来拿！”

“……来拿。”回声说，最后一座塔倒下了。

克莱格等待着。

“真好玩。”他说。“瓶子就在这儿，可连老贝克都不过来拿走。”他摇了摇。

有水声。

"耶！就像原来一样。上帝啊，装满了波本！"他打开瓶子，喝了一口，擦擦嘴唇。

他漫不经心地握着瓶子。

“这么多麻烦，就为了点儿波本……我还是在这儿等着贝克把这该死的瓶子给他吧。与此同时——再喝一点儿吧，克莱格先生。那我不客气啦。”

死寂的沙漠里唯一的声音就是液体流下干渴喉咙的声音。蓝瓶子在阳光下闪闪发光。

克莱格开心地笑了，又喝了一口。

The Blue Bottle
by Ray Bradbury

The sundials were tumbled into white pebbles. The birds of the air now flew in ancient skies of rock and sand, buried, their songs stopped. The dead sea bottoms were currented with dust which flooded the land when the wind bade it reenact an old tale of engulfment. The cities were deep laid with granaries of silence, time stored and kept, pools and fountains of quietude and memory.

Mars was dead.

Then, out of the large stillness, from a great distance, there was an insect sound which grew large among the cinnamon hills and moved in the sun-blazed air until the highway trembled and dust was shook whispering down in the old cities.

The sound ceased.

In the shimmering silence of midday, Albert Beck and Leonard Craig sat in an ancient landcar, eyeing a dead city which did not move under their gaze but waited for their shout:

"Hello!"

A crystal tower dropped into soft dusting rain.

"You there!"

And another tumbled down.

And another and another fell as Beck called, summoning them to death. In shattering flights, stone animals with vast granite wings dived to strike the courtyards and fountains. His cry summoned them like living beasts and the beasts gave answer, groaned, cracked, leaned up, tilted over, trembling, hesitant, then split the air and swept down with grimaced mouths arid empty eyes, with sharp, eternally hungry teeth suddenly seized out and strewn like shrapnel on the tiles.

Beck waited. No more towers fell.

"It's safe to go in now."

Craig didn't move. "For the same reason?"

Beck nodded.

"For a damned bottle! I don't understand. Why does everyone want it?"

Beck got out of the car. "Those that found it, they never told, they never explained. But - it's old. Old as the desert, as the dead seas - and it might contain anything. That's what the legend says. And because it could hold anything - well, that stirs a man's hunger."

"Yours, not mine," said Craig. His mouth barely moved; his eyes were half-shut, faintly amused. He stretched lazily. "I'm just along for the ride. Better watching you than sitting in the heat."

Beck had stumbled upon the old landcar a month back, before Craig had joined him. It was part of the flotsam of the First Industrial Invasion of Mars that had ended when the race moved on toward the stars. He had worked on the motor and run it from city to dead city, through the lands of the idlers and roustabouts, the dreamers and lazers, men caught in the backwash of space, men like himself and Craig who had never wanted to do much of anything and had found Mars a fine place to do it in.

"Five thousand, ten thousand years back the Martians made the Blue Bottle," said Beck. "Blown from Martian glass - and lost and found and lost and found again and again.

He stared into the wavering heat shimmer of the dead city. All my life, thought Beck, I've done nothing and nothing inside the nothing. Others, better men have done big things, gone off to Mercury, or Venus or out beyond the System. Except me. Not me. But the Blue Bottle can change all that.

He turned and walked away from the silent car.

Craig was out and after him, moving eased along.

"What is it now, ten years you've hunted? You twitch

when you sleep, wake up in fits, sweat through the days. You want the damn bottle that bad, and don't know what's in it. You're a fool, Beck."

"Shut up, shut up," said Beck, kicking a slide of pebbles out of his way.

They walked together into the ruined city, over a mosaic of cracked tiles shaped into a stone tapestry of fragile Martian creatures, long-dead beasts which appeared and disappeared as a slight breath of wind stirred the silent dust.

"Wait," said Beck. He cupped his hands to his mouth and gave a great shout. "You there!"

". . . there," said an echo, and towers fell. Fountain and stone pillars folded into themselves. That was the way of these cities. Sometimes towers as beautiful able a symphony would fall at a spoken word. It was like watching a Bach cantata disintegrate before your eyes. A moment later: bones buried in bones. The dust settled. Two structures remained intact.

Beck stepped forward, nodding to his friend.

They moved in search.

And, searching, Craig paused, a faint smile on his lips. "In that bottle," he said, "is there a little accordion woman, all folded up like one of those tin cups, or like one of those Japanese flowers you put in water and it opens out?"

"I don't need a woman."

Maybe you do. Maybe you never had a real woman, a woman who loved you, so, secretly that's what you hope is in it." Craig pursed his mouth. Or maybe, in that bottle, something from your childhood. All in a tiny bundle - a lake, a tree you climbed, green grass, some crayfish. How's that sound?"

Beck's eyes focused on a distant point. "Sometimes - that's almost it. The past-Earth. I don't know."

Craig nodded. "What's in the bottle would depend, maybe, on who's looking. Now, if there was a shot of whiskey in it . . ."

"Keep looking," said Beck.

There were seven rooms filled with glitter and shine; from floor to tiered ceiling there were casks, crocks, magnums, urns, vases - fashioned of red, pink, yellow, violet, and black glass. Beck shattered them, one by one, to eliminate them, to get them out of the way so he would never have to go through them again.

Beck finished his room, stood ready to invade the next. He was almost afraid to go on. Afraid that this time he would find it; that the search would be over and the meaning would go out of his life. Only after he had heard of the Blue Bottle from fire-travelers all the way from Venus to Jupiter, ten years ago, had life begun to take on a purpose. The fever had lit him and he had burned steadily ever since. If he worked it properly, the prospect of finding the bottle might fill his entire life to the brim. Another thirty years, if he was careful and not too diligent, of search, never admitting aloud that it wasn't the bottle that counted at all but the search, the running and the hunting, the dust and the cities and the going-on.

Beck heard a muffled sound. He turned and waded to a window looking out into the courtyard. A small gray sand cycle had purred up almost noiselessly at the end of the street. A plump man with blond hair eased himself off the spring seat and stood looking into the city. Another searcher. Beck sighed. Thousands of them, searching and searching. But there were thousands of brittle cities and towns and villages and it would take a millenium to sift them all.

"How you doing?" Craig appeared in a doorway.

"No luck." Beck sniffed the air. "Do you smell anything?"

"What?" Craig looked about.

"Smells like - bourbon."

"Ho!" Craig laughed. "That's me!"

"You?"

"I just took a drink. Found it in the other room. Shoved some stuff around, a mess of bottles, like always and one of them had some bourbon in it, so I had myself a drink.

Beck was staring at him, beginning to tremble.

"What - what would bourbon be doing here, in a Martian bottle?" His hands were cold. He took a slow step forward. "Show me!"

"I'm sure that . . ."

"Show me, damn you!"

It was there, in one comer of the room, a container of Martian glass as blue as the sky, the size of a small fruit, light and airy in Beck's hand as he set it down upon a table.

"It's half-full of bourbon," said Craig.

"I don't see anything inside," said Beck.

"Then shake it."

Beck picked it up, gingerly shook its

"Hear it gurgle?"

"No."

Beck replaced it on the table. Sunlight spearing through a side window struck blue flashes off the slender container. It was the blue of a star held in the hands. It was the blue of a shallow ocean bay at noon. It was the blue of a diamond at morning

"This is it," said Beck quietly. "I know it is. We don't have to look anymore. We've found the blue bottle."

Craig looked skeptical. "Sure you don't see anything in it?"

"Nothing . . . But -" Beck bent close and peered deeply into the blue universe of glass. "Maybe if I open it up and let it out, whatever it is, I'll know"

"I put the stopper in tight. Here." Craig reached out.

"If you gentlemen will excuse me," said a voice in the door behind them.

The plump man with blond hair walked into their line of vision with a gun. He did not look at their faces, he looked only at the blue glass bottle. He began to smile. "I hate very much to handle guns," he said "but it is a matter of necessity, as I simply must have that work of art. I suggest that you allow me to take it without trouble."

Beck was almost pleased. It had a certain beauty of timing, this incident; it was the sort of thing he might have wished for, to have the treasure stolen before it was opened. Now there was the good prospect of a chase, a fight, a series of gains and losses, and, before they were done, perhaps another four or five years spent upon a new search.

"Come along now," said the stranger. "Give it up."

He raised the gun warningly.

Beck handed him the bottle.

"Amazing. Really amazing," said the plump man. "I can't believe it was as simple as this, to walk in, hear two men talking, and to have the Blue Bottle simply handed to me. Amazing!" And he wandered off down the hall, out into the daylight, chuckling to himself.

Under the cool double moons of Mars the midnight cities were bone and dust. Along the scattered highway the landcar bumped and rattled, past cities where the fountains, the gyrostats, the furniture, the metal-singing books, the paintings lay powdered over with mortar and insect wings.

Past cities that were cities no longer, but only things rubbed to a fine silt that flowered senselessly back and forth on the wine winds between one land and another, like the sand in a gigantic hourglass, endlessly pyramiding and repyramiding. Silence opened to let the car pass, and closed swiftly in behind.

Craig said, "We'll never find him. These damned roads. So old. Potholes, lumps, everything wrong. He's got the advantage with the cycle; he can dodge and weave. Damn!"

They swerved abruptly avoiding a bad stretch. The car moved over the old highway like an eraser, coming upon blind soil, passing over it, dusting it away to reveal the emerald and gold color of ancient Martian mosaics worked into the road surface.

"Wait," cried Beck. He throttled the car down. "I saw something back there."

"Where?"

They drove back a hundred yards.

"There. You see. It's him."

In a ditch by the side of the road the plump man lay folded over his cycle. He did not move. His eyes were wide, and when Beck flashed a torch down, the eyes burned dully.

"Where's the bottle?" asked Craig.

Beck jumped into the ditch and picked up the man's gun. "I don't know. Gone."

"What killed him?"

"I don't know that either."

"The cycle looks okay. Not an accident."

Beck rolled the body over. "No wounds. Looks like he just - stopped, of his own accord.

"Heart attack, maybe," said Craig. "Excited over the bottle. He gets down here to hide. Thought he'd be all right, but the attack finished him."

"That doesn't account for the Blue Bottle."

"Someone came along. Lord, you know how many searchers there are. . . ."

They scanned the darkness around them. Far off, in the starred blackness, on the blue hills, they saw a dim movement.

"Up there." Beck pointed. "Three men on foot."

They must have . . ."

"My God, look!"

Below them, in the ditch, the figure of the plump man glowed, began to melt. The eyes took on the aspect of moonstones under a sudden rush of water.

The face began to dissolve away into fire. The hair resembled small firecracker strings, lit and sputtering. The body fumed as they watched. The fingers jerked with flame. Then, as if a gigantic hammer had struck a glass statue, the body cracked upward and was gone in a blaze of pink shards, becoming mist as the night breeze carried it across the highway.

"They must have - done something to him," said Craig. "Those three, with a new kind of weapon."

"But it's happened before," said Beck. "Men I knew about who had the Blue Bottle. They vanished. And the bottle passed on to others who vanished." He shook his head. "Looked like a million fireflies when he broke apart. . . ."

"You going after them?"

Beck returned to the car. He judged the desert mounds, the hills of bone-silt and silence. "It'll be a tough job, but I think I can poke the car through after them. I have to, now." He paused, not speaking to Craig. "I think I know what's in the Blue Bottle. . . . Finally, I realize that what I want most is in there. Waiting for me."

"I'm not going" said Craig, coming up to the car where Beck sat in the dark, his hands on his knees. "I'm not going out there with you, chasing three armed men. I just want to live, Beck. That bottle means nothing to me. I won't risk my skin for it. But I'll wish you luck."

"Thanks," said Beck. "And he drove away into the dunes."

* * *

The night was cool as water coming over the glass hood of the landcar.

Beck throttled hard over dead river washes and spills of chalked pebble, driving between great cliffs. Ribbons of double moonlight painted the bas-reliefs of gods and animals on the cliff sides all yellow gold: mile high faces upon which Martian histories were etched and stamped in symbols, incredible faces with open cave eyes and gaping cave mouths.

The motor's roar dislodged rocks, boulders. In a whole rushing downpour of stone, golden segments of ancient cliff sculpture slid out of the moons' rays at the top of the cliff and vanished into blue cool-well darkness.

In the roar, as he drove, Beck cast his mind back - to all the nights in the last ten years, nights when he had built red fires on the sea bottoms, and cooked slow, thoughtful meals. And dreamed. Always those dreams of wanting And not knowing what. Ever since he was a young man, the hard life on Earth, the great panic of 2130, the starvation, chaos, riot, want. Then bucking through the planets, the womanless, loveless years, the alone years. You come out of the dark into the light, out of the womb into the world, and what do you find that you really want?

What about that dead man back in the ditch? Wasn't he always looking for something extra? Something he didn't have. What was there for men like himself? Or for anyone? Was there anything at all to look forward to?

The Blue Bottle.

He quickly braked the car, leaped out, gun ready. He ran, crouching, into the dunes. Ahead of him the three men lay on the cold sand, neatly. They were Earthmen, with tan faces and rough clothes and gnarled hands. Starlight shone on the Blue Bottle, which lay among them.

As Beck watched, the bodies began to melt. The vanished away into rises of steam, into dewdrops and crystals. In a moment they were gone.

Beck felt the coldness in his body as the flakes rained across his eyes, flicking his lips and his cheeks.

He did not move.

The plump man. Dead and vanishing. Craig's voice: "Some new weapon ."

No. Not a weapon at all.

The Blue Bottle.

They had opened it to find what they most desired. All of the unhappy, desiring men down the long lonely years had opened it to find what they most wanted in the planets of the universe. And all had found it, even as had these three. Now it could be understood, why the bottle passed on so swiftly, from one to another, and the men vanishing behind it. Harvest chaff fluttering on the sand, along the dead sea rims. Turning to flame and fireflies. To mist.

Beck picked up the bottle and held it away from himself for a long moment. His eyes shone clearly. His hands trembled.

So this is what I've been looking for, he thought. He turned the bottle and it flashed blue starlight.

So this is what all men ready want? The secret desire, so deep inside, hidden all away where we never guess? A subliminal urge? So this is what each man seeks, through some private guilt, to find?
Death.

An end to doubt, to torture, to monotony, to wandering, to loneliness, to fear, an end to everything.

All men?

No. Not Craig. Craig was, perhaps, far luckier. A few men were like animals in the universe, not questioning, drinking at pools and breeding and raising their young and not doubting for a moment that their life was anything but good. That was Craig. There were a handful like him. Happy animals on a great reservation, in the hand of God, with a religion and a faith that grew like a set of special nerves in them. The unneurotic men in the midst of the billionfold neurotics.

The would only want death, later, in a natural manner. Not now. Later.

Beck raised the bottle. How simple, he thought, and how right. This is what I've always wanted. And nothing else.

Nothing.

The bottle was open and blue in the starlight. Beck took an immense draught of the air coming from the Blue Bottle, deep into his lungs.
I have it at last, he thought.

He relaxed. He felt his body become wonderfully cool and then wonderfully warm. He knew he was dropping down a long slide of stars into a darkness as delightful as wine. He was swimming in blue wine and white wine and red wine. There were candles in his chest, and limb wheels spinning. He felt his hands leave him. He felt his legs fly away, amusingly. He laughed. He shut his eyes and laughed.

He was very happy for the first time in his life.

The Blue Bottle dropped onto the cool sand

At dawn, Craig walked along, whistling. He saw the bottle lying in the first pink light of the sun on the empty white sand. As he picked it up, there was a fiery whisper. A number of orange and red-purple fireflies blinked on the air, and passed on away.

The place was very still.

"I'll be damned." He glanced toward the dead windows of a nearby city. "Hey, Beck"

A slender tower collapsed into powder

"Beck, here's your treasure! I don't want it! Come and get it!"

". . . and get it," said an echo, and the last tower fell.

Craig waited.

"That's rich," he said. "The bottle right here and not even old Beck around to take it." He shook the blue container.

It gurgled.

"Yes, sir! Just the way it was before. Full of bourbon, by God!" He opened it, drank, wiped his mouth.

He held the bottle carelessly.

"All that trouble for a little bourbon.. I'll wait right here for old Beck and give him his damn bottle. Meanwhile - have another drink, Mr. Craig. Don't mind if I do."

The only sound in the dead land was the sound of liquid running into a parched throat. The Blue Bottle flashed in the sun.

Craig smiled happily and drank again.