Ray Bradbury
DRIVING BLIND
STORIES

Copyright

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

www.harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk

“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, gents!” He fluttered the cards. “Don’t bet too much!”

Challenged, the men shoveled cash into the furnace.

“Whoa! No bets above four bits! Judiciously, sirs!”

The cards leapfrogged as he gazed about, oblivious of his deal.

‘‘Where’s my left thumb, my right? Or are there three thumbs?”

They laughed. What a jokester!

“Confused, chums? Baffled? Must I lose again?”

“Yes!” all babbled.

“Damn,” he said, crippling his hands. “‘Damn! Where’s the Red Queen? Start over!”

“No! The middle one! Flip it!”

The card was flipped.

“Ohmigod,” someone gasped.

“Can’t look.” The gambler’s eyes were shut. “How much did I lose this time?”

“Nothing,” someone whispered.

“Nothing?” The gambler, aghast, popped open his eyes.

They all stared at a black card.

“Gosh,” said the gambler. “I thought you had me!”

His fingers spidered to the right, another black card, then to the far left. The Queen!

“Hell,” he exhaled, “why’s she there? Christ, guys, keep your cash!”

“No! No!” A shaking of heads. “You won. You couldn’t help it. It was just—”

“Okay. If you insist! Watch out!”

Cruesoe shut his eyes. This, he thought, is the end. From here on they’ll lose and bet and lose again. Their fever’s up.

“Sorry, gents. Nice try. There!”

Cruesoe felt his hands become fists. He was twelve again, a fake mustache glued to his lip and his school chums at a party and the three-card monte laid out. “Watch the Red Queen vanish!” And the kids shout and laugh as his hands blurred to win their candy but hand it back to show his love.

“One, two, three! Where can she be?”

He felt his mouth whisper the old words, but the voice was the voice of this wizard stealing wallets, counting cash on a late-night train.

“Lost again? God, fellas, quit before your wife shoots you! Okay, Ace of spades, King of clubs, Red Queen. You won’t see her again!”

“No! There!”

Cruesoe turned, muttering. Don’t listen! Sit! Drink! Forget your twelfth birthday, your friends. Quick!

He took one step when:

“That’s three times lost, pals. I must fold my tent and …”

“No, no, don’t leave now! We got to win the damn stuff back. Deal!”

And as if struck, Cruesoe spun about and returned to the madness.

“The Queen was always there on the left,” he said.

Heads turned.

‘“It was there all the time,” Cruesoe said, louder.

“And who are you, sir?” The gambler raked in the cards, not glancing up.

“A boy magician.”

“Christ, a boy magician!” The gambler riffled the deck.

The men backed off.

Cruesoe exhaled. “I know how to do the three-card monte.”

“Congratulations.”

“I won’t cut in, I just wanted these good men—”

There was a muted rumble from the good men.

“—to know anyone can win at the three-card monte.”

Looking away, the gambler gave the cards a toss.

“Okay, wisenheimer, deal! Gents, your bets. Our friend here takes over. Watch his hands.”

Cruesoe trembled with cold. The cards lay waiting.

“Okay, son. Grab on!”

“I can’t do the trick well, I just know how it’s done.”

“Ha!” The gambler stared around. “Hear that, chums? Knows how it works, but can’t do. Right?”

Cruesoe swallowed. “Right. But—”

“But? Does a cripple show an athlete? A dragfoot pace the sprinter? Gents, you want to change horses out here—” He glanced at the window. Lights flashed by. “—halfway to Cincinnati?”

The gents glared and muttered.

“Deal! Show us how you can steal from the poor.”

Cruesoe’s hands jerked back from the cards as if burnt.

“You prefer not to cheat these idiots in my presence?” the gambler asked.

Clever beast! Hearing themselves so named, the idiots roared assent.

“Can’t you see what he’s doing?” Cruesoe said.

“Yeah, yeah, we see,” they babbled. “Even-steven. Lose some, win some. Why don’t you go back where you came from?”

Cruesoe glanced out at a darkness rushing into the past, towns vanishing in night.

“Do you, sir,” said the Straight-Arrow gambler, “in front of all these men, accuse me of raping their daughters, molesting their wives?”

“No,” Cruesoe said, above the uproar. “Just cheating,” he whispered, “at cards!”

Bombardments, concussions, eruptions of outrage as the gambler leaned forward.

“Show us, sir, where these cards are inked, marked, or stamped!”

“There are no marks, inks, or stamps,” Cruesoe said. “It’s all prestidigitation.”

Jesus! He might as well have cried Prostitution!

A dozen eyeballs rolled in their sockets.

Cruesoe fussed with the cards.

“Not marked,” he said. “But your hands aren’t connected to your wrists or elbows and finally all of it’s not connected to …”

“To what, sir?”

“Your heart,” Cruesoe said, dismally.

The gambler smirked. “This, sir, is not a romantic excursion to Niagara Falls.”

“Yah!” came the shout.

A great wall of faces confronted him.

“I,” Cruesoe said, “am very tired.”

He felt himself turn and stagger off, drunk with the sway of the train, left, right, left, right. The conductor saw him coming and punched a drift of confetti out of an already punched ticket.

“Sir,” Cruesoe said.

The conductor examined the night fleeing by the window.

“Sir,” Cruesoe said. “Look there.”

The conductor reluctantly fastened his gaze on the mob at the bar, shouting as the cardsharp raised their hopes but to dash them again.

“Sounds like a good time,” the conductor said.

“No, sir! Those men are being cheated, fleeced, buggywhipped—”

“Wait,” said the conductor. “Are they disturbing the peace? Looks more like a birthday party.”

Cruesoe shot his gaze down the corridor.

A herd of buffalo humped there, angry at the Fates, eager to be shorn.

“Well?” said the conductor.

“I want that man thrown off the train! Don’t you see what he’s up to? That trick’s in every dime-store magic book!”

The conductor leaned in to smell Cruesoe’s breath.

“Do you know that gambler, sir? Any of his pals your friends?”

“No, I—” Cruesoe gasped and stopped. “My God, I just realized.” He stared at the conductor’s bland face.

“You,” he said, but could not go on.

You are in cohoots, he thought. You share the moola at the end of the line!

“Hold on,” said the conductor.

He took out a little black book, licked his fingers, turned pages. “Uh-huh,” he said. “Lookit all the biblical/Egyptian names. Memphis, Tennessee. Cairo, Illinois? Yep! And here’s one just ahead. Babylon.”

“Where you throw that cheat off?”

“No. Someone else.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Cruesoe said.

“No?” said the conductor.

Cruesoe turned and lurched away. “Damn idiot stupid fool,” he muttered. “Keep your smart-ass mouth shut!”

“Ready, gentlemen,” the insidious cardsharp was shouting. “Annie over. Flea-hop! Oh, no! The bad-news boy is back!”

Jeez, hell, damn, was the general response.

“Who do you think you are?” Cruesoe blurted.

“Glad you asked.” The gambler settled back, leaving the cards to be stared at by the wolf pack. “Can you guess where I’m going tomorrow?”

“South America,” Cruesoe said, “to back a tin-pot dictator.”

“Not bad.” The sharpster nodded. “Go on.”

“Or you are on your way to a small European state where some nut keeps a witch doctor to suck the economy into a Swiss bank.”

“The boy’s a poet! I have a letter here, from Castro.” His gambler’s hand touched his heart. “And one from Bothelesa, another from Mandela in South Africa. Which do I choose? Well.” The gambler glanced at the rushing storm outside the window. “Choose any pocket, right, left, inside, out.” He touched his coat.

“Right,” Cruesoe said.

The man shoved his hand in his right coat pocket, pulled out a fresh pack of cards, gave it a toss.

“Open it. That’s it. Now riffle and spread. See anything?”

“Well …”

“Gimme.” He took it. “The next monte will be from the deck you choose.”

Cruesoe shook his head. “That’s not how the trick works. It’s how you lay down and pick up the cards. Any deck would do.”

“Pick!”

Cruesoe picked two tens and a red Queen.

“Okay!” The gambler humped the cards over each other. “Where’s the Queen?”

“Middle.”

He flipped it over. “Hey, you’re good.” He smiled.

“You’re better. That’s the trouble,” Cruesoe said.

“Now, see this pile of ten-dollar bills? That’s the stake, just put by these gents. You’ve stopped the game too long. Do you join or be the skeleton at the feast?”

“Skeleton.”

“Okay. They’re off! There she goes. Queen here, Queen there. Lost! Where? You ready to risk all your cash, fellows? Want to pull out? All of a single mind?”

Fierce whispers.

“All,” someone said.

“No!” Cruesoe said.

A dozen curses lit the air.

“Smart-ass,” said the cardsharp, his voice deadly calm, “do you realize that your static may cause these gentlemen to lose everything?”

“No,” Cruesoe said. “It’s not my static. Your hands deal the cards.”

Such jeers. Such hoots. “Move! My God, move!”

“Well.” With the three cards still under his clean fingers the gambler stared at the rushing storm beyond the window. “You’ve ruined it. Because of you, their choice is doomed. You and only you have intruded to burst the ambience, the aura, the bubble that enclosed this game. When I turn the card over my friends may hurl you off the train.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” Cruesoe said.

The card was turned over.

With a roar the train pulled away in a downpour of rain and lightning and thunder. Just before the car door slammed, the gambler thrust a fistful of cards out on the sulfurous air and tossed. They took flight: an aviary of bleeding pigeons, to pelt Cruesoe’s chest and face.

The club car rattle-banged by, a dozen volcanic faces with fiery eyes crushed close to the windows, fists hammering the glass.

His suitcase stopped tumbling.

The train was gone.

He waited a long while and then slowly bent and began to pick up fifty-two cards. One by one. One by one.

A Queen of hearts. Another Queen. Another Queen of hearts. And one more.

A Queen …

Queen.

Lightning struck. If it had hit him, he would never have known.

If MGM is Killed, Who Gets the Lion?

“Holy Jeez, damn. Christ off the cross!” said Jerry Would.

“Please,” said his typist-secretary, pausing to erase a typo in a screenplay, “I have Christian ears.”

“Yeah, but my tongue is Bronx, New York,” said Would, staring out the window. “Will you just look, take one long fat look at that!”

The secretary glanced up and saw what he saw, beyond.

“They’re repainting the studio. That’s Stage One, isn’t it?”

“You’re damn right. Stage One, where we built the Bounty in ‘34 and shot the Tara interiors in ‘39 and Marie Antionette’s palace in ‘34 and now, for God’s sake, look what they’re doing!”

“Looks like they’re changing the number.”

“Changing the number, hell, they’re wiping it out! No more One. Watch those guys with the plastic overlays in the alley, holding up the goddamn pieces, trying them for size.”

The typist rose and took off her glasses to see better.

“That looks like UGH. What does ‘Ugh’ mean?”

“Wait till they fit the first letter. See? Is that or is that not an H?”

“H added to UGH. Say, I bet I know the rest. Hughes! And down there on the ground, in small letters, the stencil? ‘Aircraft’?”

“Hughes Aircraft, dammit!”

“Since when are we making planes? I know the war’s on, but—”

“We’re not making any damn planes,” Jerry Would cried, turning from the window.

“We’re shooting air combat films, then?”

“No, and we’re not shooting no damn air films!”

“I don’t see …”

“Put your damn glasses back on and look. Think! Why would those SOBs be changing the number for a name, hey? What’s the big idea? We’re not making an aircraft carrier flick and we’re not in the business of tacking together P-38s and—Jesus, now look!”

A shadow hovered over the building and a shape loomed in the noon California sky.

His secretary shielded her eyes. “I’ll be damned,” she said.

“You ain’t the only one. You wanna tell me what that thing is?”

She squinted again. “A balloon?” she said. “A barrage balloon?”

“You can say that again, but don’t!”

She shut her mouth, eyed the gray monster in the sky, and sat back down. “How do you want this letter addressed?” she said.

Jerry Would turned on her with a killing aspect. “Who gives a damn about a stupid letter when the world is going to hell? Don’t you get the full aspect, the great significance? Why, I ask you, would MGM have to be protected by a barrage—hell, there goes another! That makes two barrage balloons!”

“No reason,” she said. “We’re not a prime munitions or aircraft target.” She typed a few letters and stopped abruptly with a laugh. “I’m slow, right? We are a prime bombing target?”

She rose again and came to the window as the stencils were hauled up and the painters started blow-gunning paint on the side of Stage One.

“Yep,” she said, softly, “there it is. AIRCRAFT COMPANY. HUGHES. When does he move in?”

“What, Howie the nut? Howard the fruitcake? Hughes the billionaire bastard?”

“That one, yeah.”

“He’s going nowhere, he still has his pants glued to an office just three miles away. Think! Add it up. MGM is here, right, two miles from the Pacific coast, two blocks away from where Laurel and Hardy ran their tin lizzie like an accordion between trolley cars in 1928! And three miles north of us and also two miles in from the ocean is—”

He let her fill in the blanks.

“Hughes Aircraft?”

He shut his eyes and laid his brow against the window to let it cool. “Give the lady a five-cent seegar.”

“I’ll be damned,” she breathed with revelatory delight.

“You ain’t the only one.”

“When the Japs fly over or the subs surface out beyond Culver City, the people painting that building and re-lettering the signs hope that the Japs will think Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy are running around Hughes Aircraft two miles north of here, making pictures. And that MGM, here, has Rosie the Riveters and P-38s flying out of that hangar down there all day!”

Jerry Would opened his eyes and examined the evidence below. “I got to admit, a sound stage does look like a hangar. A hangar looks like a sound stage. Put the right labels on them and invite the Japs in. Banzai!”

“Brilliant,” his secretary exclaimed.

“You’re fired,” he said.

“What?”

“Take a letter,” said Jerry Would, his back turned.

“Another letter?”

“To Mr. Sid Goldfarb.”

“But he’s right upstairs.”

“Take a letter, dammit, to Goldfarb, Sidney. Dear Sid. Strike that. Just Sid. I am damned angry. What the hell is going on? I walk in the office at eight a.m. and it’s MGM. I walk out to the commissary at noon and Howard Hughes is pinching the waitresses’ behinds. Whose bright idea was this?”

“Just what 7 wondered,” his secretary said.

“You’re fired,” said Jerry Would.

“Go on,” she said.

“Dear Sid. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Sid, why weren’t we informed that this camouflage would happen? Remember the old joke? We were all hired to watch for icebergs sailing up Culver Boulevard? Relatives of the studio, uncles, cousins? And now the damned iceberg’s here. And it wears tennis shoes, a leather jacket, and a mustache over a dirty smile. I been here twelve years, Sidney, and I refuse—aw, hell, finish typing it. Sincerely. No, not sincerely. Angrily yours. Angrily. Where do I sign?”

He tore the letter from the machine and whipped out a pen.

“Now take this upstairs and throw it over the transom.”

“Messengers get killed for messages like this.”

“Killed is better than fired.”

She sat quietly.

“Well?” he said.

“I’m waiting for you to cool down. You may want to tear this letter up, half an hour from now.”

“I will not cool down and I will not tear up. Go.”

And still she sat, watching his face until the lines faded and the color paled. Then very quietly she folded the letter and tore it across once and tore it across twice and then a third and fourth time. She let the confetti drift into the trash basket as he watched.

“How many times have I fired you today?” he said.

“Just three.”

“Four times and you’re out. Call Hughes Aircraft.”

“I was wondering when you—”

“Don’t wonder. Get.”

She flipped through the phone book, underlined a number, and glanced up. “Who do you want to talk to?”

“Mr. Tennis Shoes, Mr. Flying Jacket, the billionaire butinsky.”

“You really think he ever answers the phone?”

“Try.”

She tried and talked while he gnawed his thumbnail and watched them finish putting up and spraying the AIRCRAFT stencil below.

“Hell and damn,” she said at last, in total surprise. She held out the phone. “He’s there! And answered the phone himself!”

“You’re putting me on!” cried Jerry Would.

She shoved the phone out in the air and shrugged.

He grabbed it. “Hello, who’s this? What? Well, say, Howard, I mean Mr. Hughes. Sure. This is MGM Studios. My name? Would. Jerry Would. You what? You heard me? You saw Back to Broadway? And Glory Years. But sure, you once owned RKO Studios, right? Sure, sure. Say, Mr. Hughes, I got a little problem here. I’ll make this short and sweet.”

He paused and winked at his secretary.

She winked back. The voice on the line spoke nice and soft.

“What?” said Jerry Would. “Something’s going on over at your place, too? So you know why I’m calling, sir. Well, they just put up the aircraft letters and spelled out hughes on Stage One. You like that, huh? Looks great. Well, I was wondering, Howard, Mr. Hughes, if you could do me a little favor.”

Name it, said the quiet voice a long way off.

“I was thinking if the Japs come with the next tide by air or by sea and no Paul Revere to say which, well, when they see those big letters right outside my window, they’re sure going to bomb the hell outta what they think is P-38 country and Hughes territory. A brilliant concept, sir, brilliant. Is what? Is everyone here at MGM happy with the ruse? They’re not dancing in the streets but they do congratulate you for coming up with such a world-shaking plan. Now here’s my point. I gotta lot of work to finish. Six films shooting, two films editing, three films starting. What I need is a nice safe place to work, you got the idea? That’s it. Yeah. That’s it. You got a nice small corner of one of your hangars that—sure! You’re way ahead of me. I should what? Yeah, I’ll send my secretary over right after lunch with some files. You got a typewriter? I’ll leave mine here. Boy, How—Mr. Hughes, you’re a peach. Now, tit for tat, if you should want to move into my office here? Just joking. Okay. Thanks. Thanks. Okay. She’ll be there, pronto.”

And he hung up.

His secretary sat stolidly, examining him. He looked away, refused to meet her stare. A slow blush moved up his face.

“You’re fired,” she said.

“Take it easy,” he said.

She rose, gathered a few papers, hunted for her purse, applied a perfect lipstick mouth, and stood at the door.

“Have Joey and Ralph bring all the stuff in that top file,” she said. “That’ll do for starters. You coming?”

“In a moment,” he said, standing by the window, still not looking at her.

“What if the Japs figure out this comedy, and bomb the real Hughes Aircraft instead of this fake one?”

“Some days,” sighed Jerry Would, “you can’t win for losing.”

“Shall I write a letter to Goldfarb to tell him where you’re going?”

“Don’t write, call. That way there’s no evidence.”

A shadow loomed. They both looked up at the sky over the studio.

“Hey,” he said, softly, “there’s another. A third balloon.”

“How come,” she said, “it looks like a producer I used to know?”

“You’re—” he said.

But she was gone. The door shut.

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