A voice cried, ‘Shut it!’ It was like a blow in the face. He jumped through. The door banged. He cursed himself quietly. The voice, with dreadful patience, intoned, ‘Jesus. You Terwilliger?’ ‘Yes,’ said Terwilliger. A faint ghost of screen haunted the dark theater wall to his right. To his left, a cigarette wove fiery arcs in the air as someone’s lips talked swiftly around it. ‘You’re five minutes late!’ Don’t make it sound like five years, thought Terwilliger. ‘Shove your film in the projection room door. Let’s move.’ Terwilliger squinted. He made out five vast loge seats that exhaled, breathed heavily as amplitudes of executive life shifted, leaning toward the middle loge where, almost in darkness, a little boy sat smoking. No, thought Terwilliger, not a boy. That’s him. Joe Clarence. Clarence the Great. For now the tiny mouth snapped like a puppet’s, blowing smoke.
What do You think about Ray Bradbury Stories, Volume 1?
