Driving Blind. Ray Bradbury

      Ray Bradbury

      DRIVING BLIND

      STORIES

       Copyright

      HarperVoyager An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 77–85 Fulham Palace Road Hammersmith, London, W6 8JB

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      “Night Train to Babylon” copyright © 1997 by Ray Bradbury; first appeared in the September/October issue of Ellery Queen. “Grand Theft” copyright © 1995 by Ray Bradbury; first appeared in the July 1995 issue of Ellery Queen. “Fee Fie Foe Fum” copyright © 1993 by Ray Bradbury; first appeared in Monsters in Our Midst, edited by Robert Bloch, Tor Books. “That Old Dog Lying in the Dust” copyright © 1974 by Ray Bradbury; first appeared in the October 1974 issue of Westways magazine, under the title “Mexicali Mirage.” All other stories are original to this collection, copyright © 1997 by Ray Bradbury.

      Copyright © Ray Bradbury 1959

       Cover design by Mike Topping. Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2014 Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

      Ray Bradbury asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

      A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

      This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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      Ebook Edition © JULY 2014 ISBN:9780007541744

      Version: 2014–07–21

       Dedication

      With undying love to

      the early-arriving granddaughters, JULIA, CLAIRE, GEORGIA and MALLORY.

      And to

      the late-arriving grandsons, DANIEL, CASEY-RAY, SAMUEL and THEODORE.

      Live forever!

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Copyright

      Dedication

      

      Night Train to Babylon

      If MGM is Killed, Who Gets the Lion?

      Hello, I Must Be Going

House Divided

Grand Theft

Remember Me?

       Fee Fie Foe Fum

       Driving Blind

       I Wonder What’s Become of Sally

       Nothing Changes

       That Old Dog Lying in the Dust

       Someone in the Rain

       Madame et Monsieur Shill

       The Mirror

       End of Summer

       Thunder in the Morning

       The Highest Branch on the Tree

       A Woman is a Fast-Moving Picnic

       Virgin Resusitas

       Mr. Pale

       That Bird That Comes Out of the Clock

       A Brief Afterword

       Keep Reading

       About the Author

       Praise

       Also by the Author

       About the Publisher

       Night Train to Babylon

      James Cruesoe was in the club car of a train plummeting out of Chicago, rocking and swaying as if it were drunk, when the conductor, lurching by, glanced at the bar, gave Cruesoe a wink, and lurched on. Cruesoe listened.

      Uproars, shouts and cries.

      That is the sound, he thought, of sheep in panic, glad to be fleeced, or hang gliders, flung off cliffs with no wings.

      He blinked.

      For there at the bar, drawn to a blind source of joyous consternation, stood a cluster of men glad for highway robbery, pleased to have wallets and wits purloined.

      That is to say: gamblers.

      Amateur gamblers, Cruesoe thought, and rose to stagger down the aisle to peer over the shoulders of businessmen behaving like high school juniors in full stampede.

      “Hey, watch! The Queen comes! She goes. Presto! Where?”

      “There!” came the cry.

      “Gosh,” cried the dealer. “Lost my shirt! Again! Queen up, Queen gone! Where?”

      He’ll let them win twice, Cruesoe thought. Then spring the trap.

      “There!” cried all.

      “Good gravy!” shouted the unseen gambler. “I’m sunk!”

      Cruesoe had to look, he yearned to see this agile vaudeville magician.

      On tiptoe, he parted a few squirming shoulders, not knowing what to expect.

      But there sat a man with no fuzzy caterpillar brows or waxed mustaches. No black hair sprouted from his ears or nostrils. His skull did not poke through his skin. He wore an ordinary dove-gray suit with a dark gray tie tied with a proper knot. His fingernails were clean but unmanicured. Stunning! An ordinary citizen, with the serene look of a chap about to lose at cribbage.

      Ah, yes, Cruesoe thought, as the gambler shuffled his cards slowly. That carefulness revealed the imp under the angel’s mask. A calliope salesman’s ghost lay like a pale epidermis below the man’s vest.

      “Careful,