S is for Space

S is for Space
Ray Douglas Bradbury

One of Ray Bradbury’s classic short story collections, available in ebook for the first time.S IS FOR SPACE is a spine-tingling short story collection from one of the genre’s master storytellers.Science fiction, fantasy, small town life, and small town people are the materials from which Ray Bradbury weaves his unique and magical stories of the natural and supernatural, the past, the present , and the future.This book contains sixteen of Bradbury's most popular science fiction stories.

S IS FOR SPACE

Ray Bradbury

Dedication (#ulink_3c597703-52f9-5d54-a7e7-725b5612496e)

For Charles Beaumont

who lived in that little house

halfway up in the next block

most of my life.

And for Bill Nolan

and Bill Idelson, friend of Rush Gook,

and for Paul Condylis …

Because …

Table of Contents

Cover (#u3f5b9791-0aa2-58a6-b974-006af379af9f)

Title Page (#ue9ccb2e5-2b17-546c-8702-e93afa63a03f)

Dedication (#ulink_3038ed2b-8324-55cc-ae97-526315609423)

Introduction (#ulink_ed8a37cb-48c1-572e-ac07-267c67a13a0c)

Chrysalis (#ulink_e6c83166-fd77-5559-be6e-30cef93d4d1f)

Pillar of Fire (#ulink_8d849d84-40de-5245-8a65-07f8b93607be)

Zero Hour (#litres_trial_promo)

The Man (#litres_trial_promo)

Time in Thy Flight (#litres_trial_promo)

The Pedestrian (#litres_trial_promo)

Hail and Farewell (#litres_trial_promo)

Invisible Boy (#litres_trial_promo)

Come into My Cellar (#litres_trial_promo)

The Million-Year Picnic (#litres_trial_promo)

The Screaming Woman (#litres_trial_promo)

The Smile (#litres_trial_promo)

Dark They Were, and Golden-eyed (#litres_trial_promo)

The Trolley (#litres_trial_promo)

The Flying Machine (#litres_trial_promo)

Icarus Montgolfier Wright (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Introduction (#ulink_1c1e9fb1-df9b-5ed1-ac65-a2057bbd140b)

Jules Verne was my father.

H. G. Wells was my wise uncle.

Edgar Allan Poe was the batwinged cousin we kept high in the back attic room.

Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers were my brothers and friends.

There you have my ancestry.

Adding, of course, the fact that in all probability Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, author of Frankenstein, was my mother.

With a family like that, how else could I have turned out than as I did: a writer of fantasy and most curious tales of science fiction.

I lived up in the trees with Tarzan a good part of my life with my hero Edgar Rice Burroughs. When I swung down out of the foliage I asked for a toy typewriter during my twelfth year, at Christmas. On this rattletrap machine I wrote my first John Carter, Warlord of Mars imitation sequels, and from memory tapped out whole episodes of Chandu the Magician.

I sent away boxtops and think I joined every secret radio society that existed. I saved comic strips, most of which I still have in great boxes down in my California basement. I went to movie matinees. I devoured the works of H. Rider Haggard and Robert Louis Stevenson. In the midst of my young summers I leapt high and dove deep down into the vast ocean of Space, long long before the Space Age itself was more than a fly speck on the two-hundred-inch Mount Palomar telescope.

In other words, I was in love with everything I did. My heart did not beat, it exploded. I did not warm toward a subject, I boiled over. I have always run fast and yelled loud about a list of great and magical things I knew I simply could not live without.