In the lounge the voice-clock sang, Tick-tock, seven o’clock, time to stand up, time to stand up, sever o’clock! as if it have been afraid that no person would. The morning home lay empty. The clock ticked on, repeating and repeating its sounds into the vacancy. Seven-nine, breakfast time, seven-nine!
Within the kitchen the breakfast range gave a hissing sigh and ejected from its heat inside eight items of completely browned toast, eight eggs sunnyside up, sixteen slices of bacon, two coffees, and two cool glasses of milk.
“Right this moment is August 4, 2026,” stated a second voice from the kitchen ceiling, “within the metropolis of Allendale, California.” It repeated the date thrice for reminiscence’s sake. “Right this moment is Mr. _ Featherstone’s birthday. Right this moment is the anniversary of Tilita’s marriage. Insurance coverage is payable, as are the water, gasoline, and light-weight payments.”
Someplace within the partitions, relays clicked, reminiscence tapes glided underneath electrical eyes.
Eight-one, tick-tock, eight-one o’clock, off to high school, off to work, run, run, eight-one! However no doorways slammed, no carpets took the smooth tread of rubber heels. It was raining outdoors. The climate field on the entrance door sang quietly: “Rain, rain, go away; rubbers, raincoats for at this time . . .” And the rain tapped on the empty home, echoing.
The opening of “There Will Come Delicate Rains”
Ray Bradbury 1950
