The Veldt

Ray Bradbury

“George, I wish you’d look at the nursery.” “What’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, then.”

“I justwant you to look at it, is all, or call a psychologist in to lookat it.” “What would a psychologist want with a nursery?” “You know very well what he’d want.”His wife paused in the middle of thekitchen and watched the stove busy humming to itself, making supper for four.

“It’s just that the nursery is different now than it was.” “All right, let’s have a look.” They walkeddown the hall of their soundproofed Happylife Home, which had costthem thirty thousand dollars installed, this house which clothed andfed and rocked them to sleep and played and sang and was good to them.

Their approachsensitized a switch somewhere and the nursery light flicked onwhen they came within ten feet of it. Similarly, behind them,in the Page 1

halls, lights went on and off as they left them behind, with a soft automaticity.

“Well,” said George Hadley.

They stood on the thatched floor of the nursery.It was forty feet acrossby forty feet long and thirty feet high; it had cost half again as muchas the rest of the house. “Butnothing’s too good for our children,” George had said.

The nurserywas silent . Itwas empty as a jungle glade at hot high noon. The walls were blank and two dimensional. Now, as George andLydia Hadley stoodin the center of the room, the walls began to purr and recede into crystalline distance, it seemed, and presently an African veldt appeared, in three dimensions, on all sides, in color reproduced to the finalpebble and bit of straw. The ceiling above them became a deep sky with ahot yellow sun.

George Hadley felt the perspiration start on his brow.

“Let’s get out of this sun,” he said. “This is a little too real. But I don’tsee anything wrong.” “Wait a moment, you’ll see,” said his wife.

Now the hidden odorophonics were beginning to blow a wind of odor at thetwo people in the middle of the baked veldtland . The hot straw smell of liongrass, the cool green smell of the hidden water hole, the great rusty smellof animals, the smell of dust like a red paprika in the hot air. And nowthe sounds: the thump of distant antelope feet on grassy sod, the papery rustlingof vultures. Ashadow passed through the sky. The shadow flickered onGeorge Hadley’s upturned, sweating face.

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“Filthy creatures,” he heard his wife say.

“The vultures.”

“You see, there are the lions, far over, that way. Now they’re on their wayto the water hole. They’ve just been eating,” saidLydia . “I don’tknow what.” “Some animal.”George Hadley put his hand up toshield off the burning lightfrom his squinted eyes.”A zebra or a baby giraffe, maybe.” “Are you sure?” His wife sounded peculiarly tense.

“No, it’s a little late to be sure,” be said, amused. “Nothing over thereI can see but cleaned bone, and the vultures dropping for what’s left.” “Did you bear that scream?” she asked.

‘No.”

“About a minute ago?”

“Sorry, no.”

The lions were coming. And againGeorge Hadley was filled with admirationfor the mechanical genius who had conceived this room. A miracle ofefficiency selling for an absurdly low price. Every home should have one.

Oh, occasionally they frightened you with their clinical accuracy, they startledyou, gave you a twinge, but most of the time what fun for everyone, notonly your own son and daughter, but for yourself when you felt like a quickjaunt to a foreign land, a quick change of scenery. Well, here it was!

And here were the lions now,fifteen feet away, so real, so feverishly andstartlingly real that you could feel the prickling fur on your hand, and your mouthwas stuffed with the dusty upholstery smell of their heated Page 3

pelts, and the yellow of them was in your eyes like the yellow of an exquisiteFrench tapestry, the yellows of lions and summer grass, and the sound of the matted lion lungs exhaling on the silent noontide, and the smellof meat from the panting, dripping mouths.

Thelions stood looking at George and Lydia Hadley with terrible green-yelloweyes.

“Watch out!” screamedLydia .

The lions came running at them.

Lydiabolted and ran. Instinctively, Georgesprang after her. Outside, inthe hall, with the door slammed he was laughing and she was crying, and theyboth stood appalled at the other’s reaction.

“George!”

“Lydia!Oh, my dear poor sweetLydia!” “They almost got us!”

“Walls,Lydia , remember;crystal walls , that’s all they are. Oh, they lookreal, I must admit -Africa in your parlor - but it’s all dimensional, superreactionary, supersensitive color film and mental tape film behind glass screens. It’s all odorophonics and sonics, Lydia. Here’s my handkerchief.”

“I’m afraid.”She came to him and put her body against him and cried steadily. “Did you see? Did you feel? It’s too real.” “Now,Lydia …”

“You’ve got to tell Wendy and Peter not to read any more onAfrica .” “Of course - of course.”He patted her.

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“Promise?”

“Sure.”

“And lock the nursery for a few days until I get my nerves settled.” “You know how difficult Peter is about that.When I punished him a month ago by locking the nursery for even a few hours - the tantrum be threw!And Wendy too. They live for the nursery.” “It’s got to be locked, that’s all there is to it.” “All right.”Reluctantly helocked the huge door. “You’ve been working toohard. You need a rest.” “I don’t know - I don’t know,” she said, blowing her nose, sitting down ina chair that immediately began to rock and comfort her. “Maybe Idon’t haveenough to do. Maybe I have time tothink too much.Why don’t we shut thewhole house off for a few days and take a vacation?” “You mean you want to fry my eggs for me?” “Yes.” She nodded.

“And dam my socks?”

“Yes.”A frantic, watery-eyed nodding.

“And sweep the house?”

“Yes, yes - oh, yes!”

“But I thought that’swhy we bought this house, so we wouldn’t have to doanything?” “That’s just it. I feel like I don’t belong here. The house is wife and mothernow, and nursemaid. Can I compete with an African veldt? Can I give a bathand scrub the children as efficiently or quickly as the automatic scrub bath can? I cannot. And it isn’t just me. It’s you.You’ve been awfully Page 5

nervouslately.”

“I suppose I have been smoking too much.” “You look as if you didn’t know what to do with yourself in this house, either. You smoke a little more every morning and drinka little more every afternoonand need a little more sedative every night. You’re beginning to feelunnecessary too.” “Am I?” He paused and tried to feel into himself to see what was really there.

“Oh, George!” She looked beyond him, at the nursery door. “Those lions can’tget out of there, can they?” He lookedat the door and saw it tremble as if something had jumped againstit from the other side.

“Of course not,” he said.

At dinner they ate alone, for Wendy and Peter were at a special plastic carnival acrosstown and bad televised home to say they’d be late, to go aheadeating. SoGeorge Hadley , bemused, sat watching the dining-room table producewarm dishes of food from its mechanical interior.

“We forgot the ketchup,” he said.

“Sorry,” said a small voice within the table, and ketchup appeared.

As forthe nursery, thought George Hadley, it won’t hurt for the childrento be locked out of it awhile. Too much ofanything isn’t good for anyone.And it was clearly indicated that the children had been spending a little too much time on Africa. That sun.He couldfeel it on his neck, still, like a hot paw.And the lions.And the smell of blood. Remarkable how thenursery caught the telepathic emanations of the children’s minds and Page 6

created lifeto fill their every desire. The childrenthought lions , and therewere lions. The childrenthought zebras , and there were zebras. Sun sun. Giraffes - giraffes.Death and death.

That last. He chewed tastelessly on the meat that the table bad cut for him. Death thoughts. They wereawfully young, Wendy and Peter, for death thoughts. Or, no, you were never too young, really. Longbefore you knew whatdeath was you were wishing it on someone else.When you were two years oldyou were shooting people with cap pistols.

But this - the long, hot African veldt-the awful death in the jaws of a lion.And repeated again and again.

“Where are you going?”

He didn’tanswerLydia . Preoccupied, belet the lights glow softly on aheadof him, extinguish behind him as he padded to the nursery door. He listenedagainst it. Far away, a lion roared.

Heunlocked the door and opened it. Just before he stepped inside, he hearda faraway scream. And then another roar from the lions, which subsided quickly.

He stepped intoAfrica .How many times in the last year had he opened thisdoor and found Wonderland,Alice , the Mock Turtle, or Aladdin and his Magical Lamp, or Jack Pumpkinheadof Oz, or Dr. Doolittle, or the cow jumpingover a very real-appearing moon-all the delightful contraptions of a make-believeworld. How often had he seen Pegasus flying in the sky ceiling, orseen fountains of red fireworks, or heard angel voices singing. But now, isyellow hotAfrica , this bake oven with murder in the heat. PerhapsLydia wasright.Perhaps they needed a little vacation from the fantasy which was Page 7

growing a bit too real for ten-year-old children. It was all right to exerciseone’s mind with gymnastic fantasies, but when the lively child mind settled onone pattern… ? Itseemed that , at a distance, for the past month, he had heard lions roaring, and smelled their strong odorseeping as faraway as his study door. But, being busy, he had paid it no attention.

George Hadley stood on the African grassland alone. The lions looked up fromtheir feeding, watching him. The only flaw to the illusion was the open door throughwhich he could see his wife, far down the dark hall, like a framedpicture, eating her dinner abstractedly.

“Go away,” he said to the lions.

They did not go.

He knew the principle of the room exactly. You sent out your thoughts.

Whatever you thought would appear. “Let’s haveAladdin and his lamp,” he snapped. The veldtland remained; the lions remained.

“Come on, room! I demand Aladin !” he said.

Nothing happened. The lions mumbled in their baked pelts.

” Aladin!”

He wentback to dinner. “The fool room’s out of order,” he said. “It won’trespond.” “Or—”

“Or what?”

“Or itcan’t respond,” saidLydia , “because the children have thought aboutAfricaand lions and killing so many days that the room’s in a rut.” “Could be.”

“Or Peter’s set it to remain that way.” “Set it?”

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“He may have got into the machinery and fixed something.” “Peter doesn’t know machinery.”

“He’s a wise one for ten. That I.Q. of his -“ “Nevertheless -“

“Hello, Mom. Hello, Dad.”

The Hadleys turned. Wendy andPeter were coming in the front door, cheekslike peppermint candy, eyes like bright blue agate marbles, a smell ofozone on their jumpers from their trip in the helicopter.

“You’re just in time for supper,” said both parents.

“We’re full ofstrawberry ice cream and hot dogs,” said the children, holdinghands. “But we’ll sit and watch.” “Yes, come tell us about the nursery,” said George Hadley.

The brother and sister blinked at him and then at each other.

“Nursery?”

“All about Africa and everything,” said the father with false joviality.

“I don’t understand,” said Peter.

“Your motherand I were just traveling throughAfrica with rod and reel; Tom Swift and his Electric Lion,” said George Hadley.

“There’s noAfrica in the nursery,” said Peter simply.

“Oh, come now, Peter. We know better.” “I don’t remember anyAfrica ,” said Peter to Wendy. “Do you?” “No.”

“Run see and come tell.”

She obeyed

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“Wendy, come back here!” said George Hadley, but she was gone. The house lights followed her like a flock of fireflies. Too late, he realized hehad forgotten to lock the nursery door after his last inspection.

” Wendy’lllook and come tell us,” said Peter.

“She doesn’t have to tell me. I’ve seen it.” “I’m sure you’re mistaken, Father.” “I’m not, Peter. Come along now.” But Wendy was back. “It’s notAfrica ,” she said breathlessly.

“We’ll seeabout this,” said George Hadley, and they all walked down thehall together and opened the nursery door.

There was a green, lovely forest, a lovely river, a purple mountain, highvoices singing, and Rima, lovely and mysterious, lurking in the trees with colorfulflights of butterflies, like animated bouquets, lingering in her long hair. The African veldtland was gone. The lionswere gone . Only Rimawas here now, singing a song so beautiful that it brought tears to your eyes.

GeorgeHadley looked in at the changed scene. “Go to bed,” hesaid to thechildren.

They opened their mouths.

“You heard me,” he said.

They wentoff to the air closet, where a wind sucked them like brown leavesup the flue to their slumber rooms.

George Hadleywalked through the singing glade and picked up something thatlay in the comer near where the lions had been. He walked slowly back tohis wife.

“What is that?” she asked.

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“An old wallet of mine,” he said.

He showed it to her. Thesmell of hot grass was on it and the smell of alion. There were drops of saliva on it, it bad been chewed, and there were bloodsmears on both sides.

He closed the nursery door and locked it, tight.

In the middle of the night he was still awake and heknew his wife was awake. “Do you think Wendy changed it?” she said at last, in the dark room.

“Of course.”

“Made itfrom a veldt into a forest and put Rima there instead of lions?” “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But it’s staying locked until I find out.” “How did your wallet get there?”

“Idon’t know anything,” he said, “except that I’m beginning to be sorrywe bought that room for the children. If children are neurotic at all, aroom like that -“ “It’s supposedto help them work off their neuroses in a healthful way.” “I’m starting to wonder.” He stared at the ceiling.

“We’ve given the children everything they ever wanted.Is this our reward-secrecy, disobedience?” “Who wasit said , ‘Children are carpets, they should be stepped on occasionally’? We’ve never lifted a hand. They’re insufferable - let’s admit Page 11

it.They come and go when they like; they treat us as if we were offspring.

They’re spoiled and we’re spoiled.”

“They’vebeen acting funny ever since you forbade them to take the rocketto New York a few months ago.” “They’re not old enough to do that alone, I explained.” “Nevertheless, I’ve noticed they’ve been decidedly cool toward us since.” “I think I’llhave David McClean come tomorrow morning to have a look atAfrica.” “But it’s not Africa now,it’s Green Mansions country and Rima .” “I have a feeling it’ll be Africa again before then.” A moment later they heard the screams.

Two screams. Two people screamingfrom downstairs . Andthen a roar of lions.

“Wendy and Peter aren’t in their rooms,” said his wife.

Helay in his bed with his beating heart. “No,” he said. “They’ve brokeninto the nursery.” “Those screams - they sound familiar.”

“Do they?”

“Yes, awfully.”

Andalthough their beds tried very bard, the two adults couldn’t be rockedto sleep for another hour. A smell of cats was in the night air.

“Father?” said Peter.

“Yes.”

Peter looked at his shoes. He neverlooked at his father any more, nor Page 12

athis mother. “You aren’t going to lock up the nursery for good, are you?” “That all depends.”

“On what?” snappedPeter.

“On you and your sister.Ifyou intersperse this Africa with a little variety-oh, Sweden perhaps, or Denmark or China -“ “I thought we were free to play as we wished.” “You are, within reasonable bounds.”

“What’s wrong with Africa, Father?”

“Oh, so now you admit you have been conjuring up Africa, do you?” “I wouldn’t want the nursery locked up,” said Peter coldly.”Ever.” “Matter of fact, we’re thinking of turning the whole house off for abouta month. Live sort of a carefree one-for-all existence.” “That sounds dreadful! Would Ihave to tie my own shoes instead of lettingthe shoe tier do it? And brush my own teethand comb my hair and givemyself a bath?” “It would be fun for a change, don’t you think?” “No, it would be horrid. I didn’t like it when you took out the picture painterlast month.” “That’s because I wanted you to learn to paint all by yourself, son.” “I don’t want to do anything but look and listenand smell ; what else isthere to do?” “All right, go play in Africa.”

“Will you shut off the house sometime soon?”

“We’re considering it.”

“I don’t think you’d better consider it any more, Father.”

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“I won’t have any threats from my son!” “Very well.”And Peter strolled off to the nursery.

“Am I on time?” said David McClean .

“Breakfast?” asked George Hadley.

“Thanks,had some. What’s the trouble?” “David, you’re a psychologist.”

“I should hope so.”

“Well, then, have a look at our nursery. You saw it a year ago when you droppedby; did you notice anything peculiar about it then?” “Can’t say I did; the usual violences , a tendency toward a slight paranoia hereor there, usual in children because they feel persecuted by parentsconstantly, but, oh, really nothing.” They walked down the ball. “I lockedthe nursery up,” explained the father, “and the children broke back into it during the night. I let them stayso they could form the patterns for you to see.” There was a terrible screaming from the nursery.

“There it is,” said George Hadley. “See what you make of it.” They walked in on the children without rapping.

The screams had faded. The lions were feeding.

“Run outside a moment, children,” said George Hadley. “No, don’t change themental combination. Leave the walls as they are. Get!” With the children gone, the two menstood studying the lions clustered ata distance, eating with great relish whatever it was they had caught.

“I wish I knew what it was,” said George Hadley. “Sometimes I can almostsee. Do you think if I brought high-powered binoculars here and -“

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David McClean laughed dryly. “Hardly.”He turned tostudy all four walls. “How long has this been going on?” “A little over a month.”

“It certainly doesn’t feel good.” “I want facts, not feelings.” “My dear George, a psychologistnever saw a fact in his life. He only hears about feelings; vague things. This doesn’t feel good,I tell you.

Trust my hunches and my instincts. I have a nose for something bad. This is verybad. My advice to you is to have the whole damn room torn down and your childrenbrought to me every day during the next year for treatment.” “Is it that bad?”

“I’m afraid so. One of the original uses of these nurseries was so that wecould study the patterns left on the walls by the child’s mind, study at ourleisure, and help the child. In this case, however, the room has become achannel toward-destructive thoughts, instead of a release away from them.” “Didn’t you sense this before?” “Isensed only that you bad spoiled your children more than most. And nowyou’re letting them down in some way. What way?” “I wouldn’t let them go to New York.” “What else?”

“I’ve taken a few machines from the houseand threatened them, a month ago, with closing up the nursery unless they did their homework. I did close itfor a few days to show I meant business.” “Ah, ha!”

“Does that mean anything?”

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“Everything. Where before they had a Santa Claus now they have a Scrooge.Children prefer Santas . You’ve let this room and this house replace you andyour wife in your children’s affections. This room is their mother and father, far more important in their lives than their real parents. And nowyou come along and want to shut it off. No wonder there’shatred here .

You can feel it coming out of the sky. Feel that sun. George, you’ll have to change your life. Liketoo many others, you’ve built it around creature comforts. Why, you’dstarve tomorrow if something went wrong in your kitchen. You wouldn’tknow bow to tap an egg. Nevertheless, turn everything off. Start new. It’ll take time. But we’ll make good children out ofbad in ayear, wait and see.” “But won’t the shock be too much for the children, shutting the room up abruptly, for good?” “I don’t want them going any deeper into this, that’s all.” The lions were finished with their red feast.

The lions were standing on the edgeof the clearing watching the two men.

“Now I’m feeling persecuted,” said McClean. “Let’s getout of here. I neverhave cared for these damned rooms. Make me nervous.” “The lionslook real, don’t they?” said George Hadley. I don’t suppose there’sany way -“ “What?”

“- that they could become real?” “Not that I know.”

“Some flaw in the machinery, a tampering or something?” “No.”

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They went to the door.

“I don’t imagine the room will like being turned off,” said the father.

“Nothing ever likes to die - even a room.”

“I wonder if it hates me for wanting to switch itoff? “ “Paranoia isthick around here today,” said David McClean . “You can followit like a spoor. Hello.” Hebent and picked up a bloody scarf. “This yours?” “No.” George Hadley’s face was rigid. “It belongs to Lydia.” They went to the fuse box together and threw the switch that killed the nursery.

The two children were in hysterics. They screamed and pranced and threw things. They yelled and sobbed and swore and jumped at the furniture.

“You can’t do that to the nursery, you can’t!”

“Now, children.”

The children flung themselves onto a couch, weeping.

“George,” said Lydia Hadley, “turn on the nursery, just for a few moments. You can’t be so abrupt.” “No.”

“You can’t be so cruel…”

“Lydia, it’s off, and it stays off. And the whole damn house dies as of hereand now. The more I see of the mess we’ve put ourselves in, the more it sickens me. We’ve beencontemplating our mechanical, electronic navels for toolong. My God, how we need a breath of honest air!” Andhe marched about the house turning off the voice clocks, the Page 17

stoves, the heaters, the shoe shiners, the shoe lacers, the body scrubbers and swabbersand massagers, and every other machine be could put his hand to.

The house was full of dead bodies, it seemed. It felt like a mechanical cemetery.So silent. None ofthe humming hidden energy of machines waiting tofunction at the tap of a button.

“Don’tlet them do it!” wailed Peter at the ceiling, as if he was talkingto the house, the nursery. “Don’t letFather kill everything.” He turnedto his father. “Oh, I hate you!” “Insults won’t get you anywhere.”

“I wish you were dead!”

“We were,for a long while.Now we’re going to really start living.

Instead of being handled and massaged, we’re going to live.” Wendy was still crying and Peter joined her again. “Just a moment, just onemoment, just another moment of nursery,” they wailed.

“Oh, George,” said the wife, “it can’t hurt.”

“All right -all right , if they’ll just shut up. One minute, mind you, andthen off forever.” “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” sang the children, smiling with wet faces.

“Andthen we’re going on a vacation. David McClean is coming back in halfan hour to help us move out and get to the airport. I’m going to dress.

You turn the nursery on for a minute, Lydia, just a minute, mind you.” And the three of them went babbling off while he let himself be vacuumed upstairs through the air flue and set about dressing himself. A minutelater Lydia appeared.

“I’ll be glad when we get away,” she sighed.

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“Did you leave them in the nursery?”

“Iwanted to dress too. Oh, thathorrid Africa. What can they seein it?” “Well, in five minutes we’ll be on our way to Iowa. Lord, how did we everget in this house? What prompted us to buy a nightmare?” “Pride, money, foolishness.”

“I think we’d better get downstairs before those kids get engrossed withthose damned beasts again.” Just then they heard the children calling, “Daddy, Mommy, come quick quick!” They went downstairs in the air flue and ran down the hall. The childrenwere nowhere in sight. “Wendy? Peter!” They ran into the nursery.The veldtland was empty save for the lions waiting, looking at them. “Peter, Wendy?” The door slammed.

“Wendy, Peter!”

George Hadley and his wife whirled and ran back to the door.

“Open the door!” cried George Hadley, trying the knob. “Why, they’ve lockedit from the outside! Peter!” He beat at the door. “Open up!” He heard Peter’s voice outside, against the door.

“Don’t let them switch off the nursery and the house,” he was saying.

Mr. and Mrs. George Hadley beat at the door. “Now, don’t be ridiculous, children. It’s time to go. Mr. McClean’ll be here in a minute and…” And then they heard the sounds.

The lions onthree sides of them, in the yellow veldt grass, padding Page 19

throughthe dry straw, rumbling and roaring in their throats.

The lions.

Mr. Hadley looked athis wife and they turned and looked back at the beastsedging slowly forward crouching, tails stiff.

Mr. and Mrs. Hadley screamed.

And suddenly they realized why those other screams bad sounded familiar.

“Well, hereI am ,” said David McCleanin the nursery doorway, “Oh, hello.” He stared at the two children seated in the center of the open glade eatinga little picnic lunch. Beyondthem was the water hole and the yellow veldtland; above was the hot sun. He began to perspire. “Where areyour fatherand mother?” The children looked up and smiled. “Oh, they’ll be here directly.” “Good, we must get going.” At adistance Mr . McClean saw the lions fighting andclawing and then quieting down to feed in silence under the shadytrees.

He squinted at the lions with his hand tip to his eyes.

Now the lions were done feeding. They moved to the water hole to drink.

A shadow flickered over Mr. McClean’s hot face. Many shadows flickered.

The vultures were dropping down the blazing sky.

“A cup of tea?” asked Wendy in the silence.

Last-modified:Wed, 01 Mar 200006:01:50 GMT

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