 Countdown for Blastoff, X minus five, four, three, two, X minus one, fire. From the far horizons of the unknown come tales of new dimensions in time and space. These are stories of the future. Adventures in which you'll live in a million could be years on a thousand maybe worlds. The National Broadcasting Company in cooperation with Galaxy Science Fiction Magazine presents X, X, X minus one, one, one. Can you predict the future? Can you tell what will come in 100 years or in 10 or in the next minute? Tonight we present two ventures into the unknown, two fantasies of a future chosen from the works of one of our most brilliant young science fiction writers, Ray Bradbury. First his story entitled, There Will Come Soft Rain. Was a good house, planned and built to be lived in in the year 1980. The real estate agent had told them all about it. Now this is the bedroom. Of course it contains all the latest devices, self-warming blankets, and here's a brand new feature, beds which make themselves. Now if you just step this way through the library, we can see the latest in talking book recorders, self-building fireplace, self-cleaning robot dust disposal, all these little mouse-like things come out of the wall and take away all the dirt. Now over this way, as a complete robot kitchen of course, you set the menu for the week and the stove does the rest. Then there's the automatic hydroponic garden, self-sprinkling fire protection. See the house is fully automatic, where you could go away for a year that would run itself. And so the family took perhaps the man and the woman and the two children, a boy and a girl, and they lived contentedly, enjoying music and poetry and the rich warm things in life. And the house fed them and slept them and entertained them. It made a good life for them until one day. There were 10,000 explosions and the world shook and red fire and ashes and radioactivity fell from the sky. The happy time was over. The clock, time to rise, open your eyes. But the house lay empty. The clock talked to the empty morning. In the kitchen, the stove sighed and ejected from its warm interior, eight eggs, sunny side up, 12 bacon slices, two coffees and two cups of hot cocoa. Today is April 28, 1985. Today remember is Mr. Featherstone's birthday. Insurance, gas, atom heat and electricity bills are due. In the walls, relays clicked. Memory tapes glided under electric eyes. Recorded voices moved beneath steel needles. But no doors slammed. No carpets took the quick tread of rubber heels. At 8.30 the eggs began to shrivel. An aluminum wedge scraped them into the sink. 9.15, time to clean. 9.15, time to clean. Out of the wall, hundreds of tiny mechanical mice started. The rooms were a claw with small, cleaning animals, all rubber and metal. They sucked up the hidden dust and dirt and popped back into their barrels. At 10 o'clock, the sun came out from behind the rain. The house stood alone on a street where all the other houses were rubble and ashes. At night the ruined town gave off a radioactive glow which could be seen for miles. At 10.15, the garden sprinkler filled the soft morning air with golden fountains. The water tinkled over the charred west side of the house, the east side which had been facing the blast. It was black, except in five places. One of the five places was a silhouette of a man mowing a lawn. Just as he'd been the instant the radioactivity burned his image into the side of the house. Over there, a woman bent to pick flowers. Still further over their images burned into the wood where a small boy hands flung into the air, higher up the image of a thrown ball and opposite a girl, her hands raised to catch a ball which never came down. Five people, five spots of paint. On the front porch, the dog whined and shivered. The front door recognized the dog's voice and opened. The dog padded in wirrily, thinned to the bone, covered with sores. It ran to the kitchen and pawed the kitchen door wildly. Behind the door the stove was making pancakes which filled the house with their odor, as prescribed by the automatic preset menu selector. The dog frogged, ran insanely, spun in a circle biting its tail and died. One o'clock, one o'clock. Delicately sensing decay, the regiments of mice hummed out of the walls. Soft as blown leaves, their electric eyes glowing. One fifteen. The dog was gone. Bridge tables unfolded from the walls of the patio. Playing cards fluttered onto pads. Martinis appeared on an oaken bench. But the tables were silent. The cards untouched. Five o'clock, six o'clock, seven o'clock, eight o'clock, nine o'clock. Dinner was made, ignored, flushed away. Dishes were washed. In the study, the tobacco stand produced a cigar with half an inch of gray ash upon it, smoking, waiting, waiting. The heart fire bloomed out of nothing. Five o'clock, five o'clock. The beds began to warm their hidden circuits, and the phonograph spoke from beside the fireplace. Mrs. McClelland, what poem would you like to hear this evening? Mr. McClelland, since you express no preference, I shall select it random from among your favorites. Sarah Teasdale, there will come soft rains. There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, and swallows circling with their shimmering sound, and frogs in the pool singing at night, and wild plum trees in tremulous white. Robins will wear their feathery fire, whistling their whims on a low fence wire, and not one will know of war. Not one will care at last when it is done. Not one would mind neither bird nor tree if mankind perished utterly, and spring herself when she woke at dawn would scarcely know that we were gone. The phonograph finished the poem. The empty chairs faced each other between the silent walls. At 10 o'clock that evening, the house began to die. The wind blew the bow of a falling tree into the kitchen window, smashing it. A bottle of cleaning fluid crashed on the stove. But the comp shot down from the ceiling, but the solvent spread onto the doors, making fire as it went, other voices in other rooms taking up the alarm. The windows broke with the heat, and the wind blew in to help the fire. The fire crackled upstairs at paintings, lay hungrily on the bed to devour the rooms. The house began to shudder. The baird skeleton began to cringe in the heat. The wires revealed as if a surgeon had torn the skin off. Voices screamed in every room. Windows snapped open and shut like undecided mouths. A thousand things were happening at once. Like the interior of a clock shop at midnight, all the clocks were striking, making a merry-go-round of squeaking, whispering and rushing. In the kitchen, the stove hissing hysterically was making breakfast at a psychopathic rate. Ten dozen pancakes, six dozen loaves of toast. Then there was silence. The film spools were burned out. The wires withered and the circuits cracked. Then the house began to breathe its last. The beams began to give at the foundations. Long cracks appeared in the concrete. The seams were burst from the heat. And finally, with a huge rumble, it crashed into dust and rubble. Faintly in the east, in the ruins of the house only one wall remained standing. And within the wall, even as the sun rose to shine upon the burning rubble, a voice spoke again and again and again. No one would mind neither bird nor tree if mankind perished utterly. And springs herself, when she woke and dawned, would scarcely know that we were gone. That we were gone. That we were gone. That we were gone. Today is April 29, 1985. Change are the uses of providence. Is this how the end will come for mankind, with 10,000 explosions and a flash of radioactive gas? Or will destruction come more subtly, extended to us gently and innocently in, let's say, the hand of a child? Who knows in what manner zero hour may arrest the world we know. It was a perfect summer day in the year 1985. The streets were lined with green, peaceful trees. Businessmen sat in their quiet offices, taping their voices or watching televisions. Rockets hovered like darning needles in the blue sky. There was the universal quiet conceit and easiness of men accustomed to peace, quite certain that there would never be war or trouble again. There were no traitors among them, no unhappy ones, no disgruntled ones. The world was upon stable ground. Sunlight illumined the suburbs and the town drowsed on a tide of warm, sunlit air. On the lawns the children played, catapulting this way and that across the green grass, shouting at each other, holding hands, flying in circles, climbing trees and laughing. And in the homes, busy mothers prepared for the evening arrival of their husbands. What's Heaven's make? What's all the excitement? We're playing a game, Mommy. The most exciting game ever. What are you doing in that cabinet? I need to do something for Daddy's kids. Your father may not like... Oh, I'll take good care of them, Mom, I promise. Very well. Don't you lose anything? Oh, thank you, Mom. You want a glass of milk? Can't stop now, Mom. What's the name of the game, Ming? Invasion. Invasion. What will they think of next? That's there, and you bring that over here. Oh, no, you nitty. Now get back while I fix this. There, they wanted this for me, see? Here, just let me fix it. Ming! Mom, Ming, it's that smarty pants Joseph Connors. Don't let him play. He's 12 years old. Don't worry, I won't. What's your play, Ming? None of your business, smarty pants. I want to play. Can't. Why not? You're too old, just because you're only eight. No, you'd only laugh at this and spoil the invasion. Make him go away, Ming. Go away. This is my backyard. Who wants to play with you and your old fairies anyway? They aren't fairies. I don't see you. I don't want to play anyway. Good riddance. I'm glad you didn't let him play, Ming. He'd only laugh. Now we better talk to Drill and get some more instructions, Art. Now here's your pad and pencil. Where is Drill? Drill? Well, he's in the rose bush, I think. I'll talk to him myself, and you write it down in the pad. Okay. Drill? Drill? Okay. Drill wants you to write down triangle. What's a triangle? Never mind. Drill will tell us when he wants us to know. It helps the invasion. How do you spell it? Well, that's Drill. Drill, how do you spell it? Here's your mother, looking out the window. Ming. Yes, mother? Who are you talking to? The rose bush. No, I see. Well, you better come in and clean up the supper. Your daddy will be home soon. In just a second, Mom. Mom, you got that on? See, now what? And a hexagonal hexagonal droopy. Come on, Mom. I wish we didn't have to eat, though. It holds up the invasion. Ming. I haven't said slow down your choke on that soup. I can't. It's a matter of life and death. What's a matter of life and death? The invasion. What invasion is that? No, just some silly game the children have been playing. Well, whatever it is, Ming. It'll wait until you've finished your supper, I'm sure. I don't want any more. You've barely touched anything. Oh, but Drill is waiting for me, Daddy. Drill? Who's Drill? He lives in a rose bush in our backyard. Imagination, Henry. Such nonsense. I've got to run now. You'll sit through dessert, young lady. Oh, gee, Daddy. And while you're at it, tell me more about this new game. It's Martians invading Earth, Daddy. What? Well, we're not exactly Martians, Daddy. We're from, well, gee, I don't know, from up. And from inside that little head of yours. You're laughing at me. Drill said you would. You'll kill Drill and everybody. What? I didn't know you could kill a Martian. Really a Martian, Mom? Yes, even. Imagine. They couldn't figure out a way to attack the Earth. We are impregnable. Impregnable, dear. Well, that's the word Drill said, impregnable. Well, anyway, that was the word, Mom, the same word. Anyway, so we're helping him. Who's helping who? The kids are helping the Martians. Well, a fifth column, eh? Well, Drill says in order to make a good fight, you've got to have a new way of surprising the people. That way you win. And he says, also, you've got to have help from your enemy. Pretty slick, those Martians, using the kids for a fifth column, eh, Mary? Hiding under rose bushes, too, Henry. Don't forget that. Well, that's because grown-ups never look under rose bushes. Only kids. Oh, I see. Well, finish your fruit, darling. I'll be right there for an hour afterward. Mary. Oh, it's so nice out, Henry. There's no school tomorrow. Very well, till eight o'clock. Drill says after the invasion, we can stamp as late as we want. No more bets, either. Oh, is that so? We can watch all the grown-up televisors show. I don't wonder this invasion has caught on among the kids. Well, some of the kids are giving us trouble, like Dale Brits and P.D. Jerrick. They're growing up so they won't believe in the invasion. They make fun worse than parents even. I hate them worst. We'll kill them first. I hope you're saving your father and me for last. But Drill says you're dangerous. What? But I think they'll let me keep you because I'm helping so much. I'll talk to Drill. Maybe we won't have to kill you. Mary, I think this nonsense has gone far enough. Can I go out now, please? Yeah, run along, dear. Mary, I think the child's taking this game entirely too seriously, invasion. Ah, Henry, you know how mean kids are. Besides, all children have their aggressions. Better to get them out in the open, I suppose. Maybe you're right. Um, I was wondering about bridge with the Jacksons tonight, Mary. All right. You look tired, dear. Why don't you sit in the relaxer for a while and get a massage? I'll sew for a while until it's time to... Oh, I wanted to call my sister Helen. Oh, good. Find out when her husband's going to return my golf clubs. Would you please connect me with Mrs. Helen Rogison on channel 7, 2-Z, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. What is your channel, please? 817-X, New Rochelle, New York. Thank you. Just a moment. Go ahead. You can see your party now. Hello, Mary. How are things in New York? Fine, Helen. How are things in Pittsburgh? You look tired. Oh, I've been having a terrible time with the children. See? No, just underfoot. They've got a new game that's got to be just about crazy. It's called Invasion. Did you say Invasion? That's right. Isn't that strange? My mink is playing it, too. My boy Tim is all involved with some imaginary fellow named Drill, who's running the Invasion. Must be a new password. Mink likes him, too. How do you suppose these games start? My backyard looks like a scrap drive. They've got every conceivable kind of mechanical gadget arranged out there. I talked to Josephine Schiller in Boston, and she says her kids are wild about it, too. It's sweeping the country. Remember when it was the Roomba? Please, dear. I'm not that old. Mommy. Oh, please, Mickey. I'm on the televisor. Come on. See you around, Helen. Hello, Mink. Hi. What is it, honey? It's the yoyo. Look when I enroll it. Helen, look. It's vanished. Where did it go? Into a strange dimension. I say the darn thing. My Timmy brought one home, too. I can't figure out how they worked. Make it reappear, honey. There. I think it's easy. Where'd you get it, dear? You gave it to me, Mom. Mink? Bye, Aunt Helen. You've got to run now. Mink, you come back here. I want to talk to you. Come on. Mink. I can't understand it. The child's never been so unruly. Helen, do you suppose it's... Nothing. Just a while thought that... Say the reason I called, I want to get that black and white cake recipe. And Henry wants his golf clubs. I don't know what he'll do with it. I don't know. One of the children must have been hurt. I'll have to run and see. Call me back tonight, will you? All right, Mary. Bye. What is it? Peggy. All right, what happened? Well, she got scared and went home. Did you hit her? No. She just got scared. She's a scared baby, anyway. We won't let her play anymore. She's getting too old. Now, Mink, tell me why she cried. No, I can't. Mink, you'll answer me this instant or come inside. I've had enough of this nonsense. Gee, I can't quit now, Mom. Then tell me what frightened Peggy Ann. Okay, she saw Drill. Drill? He almost came through. He was just testing. Through what? Those pipes and things he set up. She looked into one of the pipes and screams. I guess she saw Drill. And no one hit her. Uh-huh. Very well, Mink. I'll call Peggy Ann's mother and see how she is. And I'll call you for your bath in half an hour. Your father and I want to go out tonight. You won't be able to go out, Mom. Why not? And relax a little before we went to theater. Where's the little one? Out back. Same game. Same game. They've got a stack of pipes and hammers and spoons a mile high out there. Children, children, why do we have them? They are strange little creatures, aren't they? Even Mink Henry, she's a part of us and yet what do we really know about how she thinks and feels? I didn't mean to start a philosophic discussion. Kids are such a queer mixture of love and hate, though. Even normal healthy kids. They need you and they're dependent on you and yet they resent that dependence. You sound like a channeled psychology course I once took. I wonder if they ever really forgive the whippings and the commands we have to give them sometimes. I wonder if we ever forgot them when we were children. Look, I'd like to discuss this with you, dear, but we do have a theater date and it's almost five o'clock now. What's happened to the kids? They're so quiet. When children are quiet, you know there's some mischief. What's that sound? I don't know. Those kids aren't playing with anything electrical, are they? I'm sure they are. At least I know. That's the same. I'd better go out. Henry, tell them to put off the invasion. Well, Mary, don't get upset. It's just a game. But Lord, what's that? Look out the window, Mary. What is it? Where are the children? Mary, why are you shaking? What did you see? Henry, quick. Up to the attic. They aren't in the attic. Yes, yes, the attic. Quick. Mary, come back here. Mary! Mary, don't go up. They aren't up there. Are you out of your mind? There's no one up here. Quick, shut the door. There's nothing up here. What is wrong with you? Mary, come to your senses. What are you talking about? I saw it through the window, Henry. It was horrible. What? For heaven's sake, let's get down out of this attic and talk this over sensibly. I want to find out if Mink is all right. She's all right. I saw her. She was leading them around the corner of the house. Leading who? The kids? Nothing. Like 50 men with the boots on. Written by Ray Bradbury and adapted for radio by George Lefferts. Featured in the first story as narrator was Norman Rose. Zero Hour featured Denise Alexander as Mink and Rita Lynn and Roger DeCoven as her mother and father. Music by Albert Berman. This is Fred Collins speaking. X minus one was directed by Edward King and is an NBC radio network production.