THE LOST CITY OF MARS
Ray Bradbury
The great eye floated in space. And behind the great eye somewhere hidden away within metal and machinery was a small eye that belonged to a man who looked and could not stop looking at all the multitudes of stars and the diminishings and growings of light a billion billion miles away.
The small eye closed with tiredness. Captain John Wilder stood holding to the telescopic devices that probed the Universe and at last murmured, “Which one?”
The astronomer with him said, “Take your pick.”
“I wish it were that easy.” Wilder opened his eyes. “What’s the data on that last star?”
“Same size and reading as our sun. Planetary system, possible.”
“Possible. Not certain. If we pick the wrong star, God help the people we send on a two-hundred-year journey to find a planet that may not be there. No, God help me, for the final selection is mine, and I may well send myself on that journey. So, how can we be sure?”
“We can’t. We just make the best guess, send our starship out and pray.”
“You are not very encouraging. That’s it. I’m tired.” Wilder touched a switch that shut up tight the greater eye, this rocket-powered space lens that stared cold upon the abyss, saw far too much and knew little, and now knew nothing. The rocket laboratory drifted sightless on an endless night.
“Home,” said the captain. “Let’s go home.”
And the blind beggar-after-stars wheeled on a spread of fire and ran away.
. . .
