The Illustrated Man

An empty city on a remote planet waits 20 thousand years for an unknown event. A rocket finally lands, and men emerge. Unbeknownst to them, their presence activates the city. It opens “secret nostrils” in its walls, evaluating them. Chemical details scroll on a typewriter and are logged, down to the smell of butter, which “the great Nose broke down into memories of milk, cheese, ice cream, butter, the effluvium of a dairy economy” (223).

At the men’s military chatter, Ears wake up too. After years of listening only to nature, they log the sound of human voices. One man, Smith, is extremely uncomfortable; he feels the city is too familiar. His fears are shot down by his captain, who reminds Smith that theirs is the only light-year rocket in existence. The Ears hear the conversation, and the city wafts the welcoming smell of green grass to the men to calm them: “the countermove had succeeded. The pawns were proceeding forward” (224-25).

The Eyes of the city open in the windows. Smith claims he saw it, but no one believes him. The streets are like tongues, tasting their rubberoid boots. Fully awake, the city continues taking minute measurements of the men and their physiology.