Hi, I'm LeVar Burton and this is LeVar Burton Reads. In every episode I have hand-picked a different piece of short fiction and I've read it to you. The only thing these stories have had in common is that I love them and I hope you have too. This is indeed the final episode of season 13 of LeVar Burton Reads y'all, but here's the thing. You know how much I love reading aloud and so rest assured I'll figure out how to continue to engage with you in storytelling that we love.
And as it's the final episode, it really made sense to read something today by one of the greats. A speculative storyteller whose work has endured for decades, the great Ray Bradbury. Ray Bradbury's stories are so powerful and appealed to so many people partially because they are lyrical and colloquial, often playful, while all the time engaging with difficult truths. The story that I've chosen for today is one of Bradbury's tales about time travel.
I think it's about human destiny and hope for the future. More than anything. I think it's about the power of human storytelling. The Toin B Convector was written in 1983 and first published in Playboy magazine and then later featured in a collection of short stories by the same title, The Toin B Convector. And it's still in print today.
Go Ray. As one of the characters explains, The Toin B in the name refers to the historian Arnold J. Toin B, who said, any group, any race, any world that did not run to seize the future and shape it was doomed to dust away to the grave in the past. Can't wait for you to hear this story. You'll find a content advisory for this story in the written episode description and now if you're ready. Please take that deep breath. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Us. The Toin B Convector by Ray Brandberry. Good. Great.
Bravo for me. Roger Shumway flung himself into the seat, buckled himself in, revved the rotor and drifted his dragonfly Super Six helicopter up to blow away on the summer sky, heading south toward Lauea. How lucky can you get? For he was on his way to an incredible meeting. The time traveler, after a hundred years of silence, had agreed to be interviewed.
He was on this day 130 years old and this afternoon at four o'clock sharp Pacific time was the anniversary of his one and only journey in time. Lord yes, 100 years ago Craig Bennett's styles had waved, stepped into his immense clock as he called it and vanished from the present. He was and remained the only man in history to travel in time. And Shumway was the one and only reporter after all these years to be invited in for afternoon tea.
And the possible announcement of a second and final trip through time. The traveler had hinted at such a trip. Old man said Shumway. Mr. Craig Bennett's styles, here I come. The dragonfly, obedient to fevers, seized a win and rode it down the coast. Old man was there waiting for him on the roof of the time lamissary at the rim of the hang gliders cliff in lollia. The air swarmed with crimson blue and lemon kites from which young men shouted while young women called to them from the land's edge.
For all his 130 years was not old. Was the bright face of one of those hang gliding Apollo fools who veered off as the helicopter sank down. Shumway covered his craft for a long moment, savoring the delay. Below him was a face that had dreamed architectures, known incredible loves, blueprinted mysteries of seconds, hours, days, then died in to swim upstream through the centuries, a sunburst face celebrating its own birthday.
For on a single night, 100 years ago, Craig Bennett's styles, freshly returned from time, had reported by tell star around the world to billions of viewers and told them their future. We made it. He said, we did it. The future is ours. We rebuilt the cities, freshen the small towns, clean the lakes and rivers, wash the air, wave the dolphins, increase the whales, stopped the wars. Tossed solar stations across space to light the world, colonize the moon, move on to Mars, then Alpha Centurri.
We churred, cancer, and stopped death. We did it. Oh Lord, much thanks we did it. Oh, futures bright and beauty aspires, arise. He showed them pictures. He brought them samples. He gave them tapes and LP records. Film and sound cassettes of his wondrous roundabout flight. The world went mad with joy. It ran to meet and make that future, fleeing up the cities of promise, save all and share with the beasts of land and sea. Old man's welcoming shout came up the wind.
Shumway shouted back and let the dragon fly simmer down in its own summer weather. Craig Bennett styles. 130 years old strode forward briskly and incredibly helped the young reporter out of his craft. For Shumway was suddenly stunned and weak at this encounter. I can't believe I'm here. Shumway said, you are and none too soon. Laptop time traveler. Any day now, I may just fall apart and blow away. Blunch is waiting. Hike. A parade of one.
Styles marched off under the fluttering rotor shadows that made him seem a flickering newsreel of a future that had somehow passed. Shumway, like a small dog after a great army, followed. What do you want to know? Asked the old man as they crossed the roof, double time. First, gasped Shumway, keeping up. Why have you broken silence after 100 years? Second, why to me? Third, what's the big announcement you're going to make this afternoon at 4 o'clock?
The very hour when your younger self is due to arrive from the past. When for a brief moment you will appear in two places. A paradox. The person you were. Man, you are. Fused in one glorious hour. You're us to celebrate. The old man laughed. How you do go on. Sorry. Shumway blushed. I wrote that last night. Well, those are the questions. You shall have your answers. The old man shook his elbow gently. All in good. Time. I must excuse my excitement. Said Shumway. After all, you are a mystery.
You were famous. World acclaimed. You went, saw the future, came back, told us, then went into seclusion. Oh, sure. For a few weeks you traveled the world and ticker-taped parades, showed yourself on TV, wrote one book, gifted us with one magnificent two-hour television film. Then shut yourself away. Here. Yes, the time machine is on exhibit below. The crowds are allowed in each day at noon to see and touch, but you yourself have refused fame. Not so. The old man led him along the roof.
Below in the gardens, other helicopters were arriving now, bringing TV equipment from around the world to photograph the miracle in the sky. That moment when the time machine from the past would appear, shimmer, then wander off to visit other cities before it vanished into the past. I have been busy as an architect, helping build that very future I saw, as a young man I arrived in our golden tomorrow. They stood for a moment, watching the preparations belong.
Fast tables were being set up for food and drink. Dignitaries would be arriving soon from every country of the world to thank for a final time perhaps. This fabled this almost mythic traveler of the years. Come along, said the old man. Would you like to come sit in the time machine? No one else ever has, you know. Would you like to be the first? No answer was necessary. The old man could see that the young man's eyes were bright and wet. There, there. Said the old man. Oh dear, be there there.
A glass elevator sank and took them below and let them out in a pure white basement in the center of which stood the incredible device. There, styles touched a button in the plastic shell that had for 100 years encased the time machine slid aside. The old man nodded. Go, sit. Some way moved slowly toward the machine. Styles touched another button and the machine lit up like a cavern of spider webs. It breathed in years and whispered forth remembrance. Ghosts were in its crystal veins.
A great god spider had woven its tapestries in a single night. It was haunted and it was alive. The scene tides came and went in its machinery. Suns burned and moons hid their seasons in it. Here an autumn blew away and tatters. There, winters arrived in snows that drifted in spring blossoms to fall on summer fields. The young man sat in the center of it all, unable to speak, gripping the on-rests of the padded chair. Now, let's get back to our story. Don't be afraid. Send the old man gently.
I won't send you on a journey. I wouldn't mind. Said Shumway. The old man studied his face. No, I can see you wouldn't. You looked like me. 100 years ago this day, damn if you aren't by honorary sun. The young man shut his eyes at this, the lids glistened and the ghosts and the machine sighed all about him and promised him tomorrow's. Well, what do you think of my Toin B. Convector? Said the old man briskly to break the spell. He cut the power. The young man opened his eyes.
The Toin B. Convector, what? More mysteries. The great Toin B. That fine historian who said any group, any race, any world that did not run to seize the future and shape it was doomed to dust away in the grave in the past. Did he say that? Or some such, he did. So what better name for my machine? Toin B. Wherever you are. Here's your future seizing device. He grabbed the young man's elbow and steered him out of the machine. And nothing that, it's late. Almost time for the great arrival.
And the earth's shaking final announcement of that old time traveler's styles. Come. Back on the roof, they looked down on the gardens which were now swarming with the famous and the near famous from across the world. The nearby roads were jammed. The skies were full of helicopters and hovering by planes. Hang gliders had long since given up and now stood along the cliff rim like a mob of bright tarot actles, wings folded, heads up, staring at the clouds, waiting.
All this, the old man murdered my god for me. The young man checked his watch. Ten minutes to four and counting, almost time for the great arrival. Sorry. And that's what I called it when I wrote you up, but we could go for the news. It's a time, moment of arrival and departure in the blink of an eye. When by stepping across time you changed the whole future of the world from night to day, dark to light. I often wondered what, someway studying the sky.
When you went ahead in time, did no one see you around? Did anyone happen at all to look up, do you know, and see your device hover in the middle of the air here and over Chicago a bit later, and then New York and Paris, no one? Well, said the inventor of the Toine B. Convector. I don't suppose anyone was expecting me. And if people saw, they surely did not know what in blazes they were looking at. And I was careful, anyway, not to linger too long.
I needed only time to photograph the rebuilt cities, clean seas and rivers, the fresh, small, free air, unfortified nations, saved in beloved waves. I moved quickly, photographed, swiftly, and ran back down the years home. Today paradoxically, it's different. Thousands upon millions of mobs of eyes will be looking up with great expectations. They will glance, will they not, from the young fool burning in the sky to the old fool here, still glad for his triumph. They will, said Shumway.
Oh, indeed, they will. A court popped. Shumway turned from surveying the crowds on the nearby fields and the crowds of circling objects in the sky to see that styles had just opened a bottle of champagne. Our own private toast and our own private celebration. They held their glasses up, waiting for the precise and proper moment to drink. Five minutes to four and counting. Why? Said the young reporter. Did no one else ever travel in time? I put a stop to it.
Myself said the old man leaning over the roof, looking down at the crowds. I realized how dangerous it was. I was reliable, of course, no danger, but Lord, think of it. Anyone rolling about the bowling alley, time corridors ahead, knocking ten panels head long, frightening natives, shocking citizens somewhere else, fiddling with Napoleon's lifeline behind, or restoring Hitler's cousins ahead. No, no. And the government, of course, agreed.
No, insisted that we put the Toine B. Convector under sealed lock and key. Today, you were the first and last to fingerprint its machine. The guard has been heavy and constant for tens of thousands of days to prevent the machines being stolen. What time do you have? Shumway glanced at his watch and took in his breath. One minute and counting down. He counted the old man counted. They raised their champagne glasses. Nine, eight, seven. The crowds below were immensely silent.
The sky whispered with expectation. The TV cameras swung up to scan and search. Six, five. They clinked their glasses. Four, three, two. They drank. One. They drank their champagne with a laugh. They looked to the sky. The golden air above the La Jolla coastline waited. The moment for the great arrival was here. Now cried the young reporter like a magician giving orders. Now said styles gravely quiet. Nothing. Five seconds passed. The sky stood empty. Ten seconds passed. Heavens waited.
Twenty seconds passed. Nothing. At last, Shumway turned to stare and wonder the old man by his side. Stiles looked at him, shrugged and said, I lied. You what? Cryed Shumway. The crowds below shifted un-easily. I lied. Said the old man simply. No! Oh, but yes, said the time traveler. I never went anywhere. I stayed but made it seem I went. There is no time machine, only something that looks like one. But why? Cryed the young man, bewildered, holding on to the rail at the edge of the roof. Why?
I see that you have a tape recording button on your lapel. Turn it on. Yes, there. I want everyone to hear this. Now. The old man finished his champagne and then said, because I was born and raised in a time in the 60s, 70s and 80s when people had stopped believing in themselves. I saw that disbelief, the reason that no longer gave itself reasons to survive and was moved, depressed and then angered by it. Everywhere. I saw and heard doubt. Everywhere. I learned destruction.
Everywhere was professional despair, intellectual on weed and what wasn't on weed and cynicism was rampant skepticism and insipient nihilism. The old man stopped having remembered something. He bent and from under a table brought forth a special bottle of red burgundy with the label 1984 on it. This as he talked, he began to open gently plumbing the ancient cork. You name it. We had it. The economy was a snail. The world was a cesspool. Economics remained an insoluble mystery.
Melancholy was the attitude. The impossibility of change was the vogue and the world was the slogan. Nothing was worth doing. Go to bed at night full of bad news at 11, wake up in the morning to worst news at 7. Trudge through the day underwater. Brown at night and a tide of plagues and pestilence. Ah. For the cork it softly popped. The now harmless 1984 vintage was ready for airing. The time traveler sniffed it and nodded.
But only the four horsemen of the apocalypse rode the horizon to fling themselves on our cities, but a fifth horsemen, worse than all the rest rode with them. The spare wrapped in dark troughs of defeat, crying only repetitions of past disasters, present failures, future cowlises. Bombarded by dark chaff and no bright seed, what sort of harvest was there for a man in a latter part of the incredible 20th century? Forgotten was the moon.
Forgotten the red landscapes of Mars, the great eye of Jupiter, the stunning rings of Saturn, we refused to be comforted. We wept at the grave of our child. The child was us. Was that how it was? One hundred years ago. Asked some week quietly. Yes. The time traveler held up the wine bottle as if it contained proof. He poured some into a glass, hide it, inhaled and went on. You have seen the newsreels and read the books of that time? You know it all. Of course there were a few bright moments.
When salt delivered the world's children to life, or the night when eagle landed and that one great step for mankind trod the moon. But in the minds and out of the mouths of many, fifth horsemen was darkly chaired on. With high hopes it sometimes seemed of his winning. So all would be gloomily satisfied that their predictions of doom were right from day one. So the self-fulfilling prophecies were declared. We dug our graves and prepared to lie down in them. And you couldn't allow that.
Asked the young reporter. You know I couldn't. And so you built the Toinby Convector. Not all at once, it took years to root on it. And old man paused to swirl the dark wine, gaze at it and sip. Eyes closed. Being wild, I drowned. I despaired, wept silently, late nights thinking what can I do to save us from ourselves? How to save my friends, my city, my state, my country, the entire world from this obsession with doom?
Well, it was in my library, late one night that my hand searching along shelves touched at last on an old and beloved book by HG Wells. His time device, called Ghostlike Down the Years. I heard. I understood. I truly listened. Then I blueprinted. I built. I traveled. Or so it seemed. The rest is, you know, his history. The old time traveler drank his wine. And his eyes. Now let's get back to our story. Good God. The young reporter whispered, shaking his head.
Oh, dear God. Oh, the wonder, the wonder. There was an immense ferment in the lower gardens now, and in the fields beyond, and on the roads and in the air, millions were still waiting. Where was the great arrival? Well, now. Said the old man, filling another glass with wine for the young reporter. I heard. I made the machines. Built miniature cities, lakes, ponds, seas. erected vast architectures against crystal water skies. Talked to dolphins, played with whales, fake tapes, withologized films.
Oh, it took years. There's a sweating work and secret preparation before I announced my departure. Left came back. The good news. They drank the rest of the vintage wine. There was a hum of voices. All of the people below were looking up at the roof. The time traveler weighed at them in time. Quickly now, it's up to you from here on. You have the tape. My voice on it just freshly made. Here are three more tapes with fuller data. Here's a film cassette history of my whole inspired fraudulence.
Here's a final manuscript. Take, take it all. Hand it on. I nominate you as son to explain the father. Quickly. He hustled into the elevator once more. Jumway felt the world fall away, but he... He didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so gave at last a great hoot. The old man, surprised, hooded with him as they stepped out below and advanced upon the Toimbee convector. You see the boy? Don't you, son? Life has always been lying to ourselves.
His boys, young men, old men, as girls, maidens, women, to gently lie and prove the lie true. To weave dreams and put brains and ideas and flesh in the truly real beneath the dreams, everything finally is a promise. What seems a lie is a ramshackle need, wishing to be born here, thus and so. He pressed the button and raised the plastic shield, pressed another and started the time machine humming. Then, chaffled quickly in to thrust himself into the convector's seat.
Throw the final switch, young man. But you're thinking if the time machine is a fraud, it won't work. What's the use of throwing a switch? Yes? Throw it anyway. This time, it will work. Shumwe turned, found the control switch, grabbed hold, and looked at cragmented styles. I don't understand. Where are you going? Why? To be one with the ages, of course, to exist now only in the deep past. How can that be? Believe me. This time, it will happen. Goodbye, dear, fine, nice young man. Goodbye.
Now, tell me my name. What? Speak my name and throw the switch. Time traveler? Yes. Now. The young man yanked the switch. The machine hung, roared, blazed with power. Said the old man shutting his eyes. His mouth smiled gently. Yes. His head fell forward on his chest. Shumwe yelled, banged the switch off and leaped forward to tear at the straps, binding the old man in his device. In the midst of so doing, he stopped.
Felt the time travelers risked, but his fingers under the neck to test the pulse there and groaned. He began to weep. The old man had indeed gone back in time, and its name was dead. He was traveling in the past now, forever. Shumwe stepped back and turned the machine on again. If the old man were to travel, let the machine symbolically, anyway, go with him.
He made a sympathetic humming, the fire of it, the bright sun fire, burned in all its spider grids and armatures, and lighted the cheeks of the vast brow of the ancient traveler, whose head seemed to nod with the vibrations, whose smile, as he traveled into darkness, is the smile of a child much satisfied. The reporter stood for a long moment more, wiping his cheeks with the backs of his hands. Then, leaving the machine on, he turned, crossed the room, pressed the button for the glass elevator.
And while he was waiting, took the time traveler's tapes and cassettes from his jacket pockets, and one by one shoved them into the incinerator trash flu, set in the wall. The elevator doors opened. He stepped in, the doors shut. The elevator hummed now, like yet another time device, taking him up into a stunned world, a waiting world, lifting him up into a bright continent, a future land, a wondrous and surviving planet. And one man with one lie had created.
A lot of people ask me, why science fiction? I mean, what's your thing about speculative fiction, Lavaire? Well, for me, it's the hopeful nature of the genre. The idea that we can rise to our highest level of expression as a species, the hope that that inspires so much good has come from our natural inclinations to look up. There's that image in the story where millions of people are looking up. This life has given me a lot of wonderful opportunities.
I've actually become friends with a woman named Carol Jemisin. She was the first African American woman in space. She flew on the space shuttle and she's got a project that she's been working on for several years. I've been a ten-general part of it called the 100-year starship. It's an effort that gathers together all kinds of experts and all kinds of fields. And they discuss what it will take in the here and now for us to create a future that will enable us to be a space-faring race.
The idea is that it's not going to happen today. It's not going to happen for us. We are planning for the next hundred years. One of the things that May says about this journey that we're on, she stresses how important it is for us to look up, to actually connect to the stars, to acknowledge that we come from them and that there is a calling that lives inside of us to return to that which we came from. In this story, in the very, very brilliant, very Bradbury, reminds us of that calling.
As I've talked about on our way to now, this is indeed the final episode of the final season of the Barburton Reads. It has been my extreme and joyous pleasure to be with you on this journey. It has been the honor of my life genuinely to share these stories with you and sometimes my thoughts and feelings and to feel your response. I feel seen by you all. I thank you for that. As my final words, I just want to encourage you to keep reading, keep expanding, keep living in your imaginations.
That is the fuel that is going to power the commitment necessary to dream big and change the world. Keep looking up, y'all. I'll see you next time. You know. Our producer on this episode of the Barburton Reads is Julius Smith. She is the best in the business, y'all. Our fabulous researcher is LD Lewis. Always happy to have you aboard my sister.
She had additional research support this season from Talon Stradley and Josephine Mar Hirona, editing and sound designed by the extraordinary Brendan Burns, who also created our theme music. My great thanks to the state of Ray Bradbury for allowing me to read his story. You can find it in the collection entitled The Toin B. Convector. If you enjoyed this podcast, please tell a friend about it or leave us a review on Apple Podcasts like I say, share the short fiction well.
Lava Burton Reads is a production of Stitcher and Lava Burton Entertainment. Our executive producers are Josephine Mar Hirona and yours truly, Lava Burton. And if you want to find me on the internet, I'm Lava.Burton on Instagram, at LavaBurton on X or you can simply go to LavaBurton.com. You can also join my book club at fabl.co-lava. I'll see you next time, but you don't have to take my word for it. Stitcher.