Montag started toward her, but Leahy held his arm. Leahy jerked his head toward the house. “Come on, Montag.”
The cab drove away slowly among the lighted houses.
There was a crystal tinkling as the windows of the house were broken to provide fine drafts for fire.
Mr. Montag walked but did not feel his feet touch the sidewalk, nor the hose in his cold fingers, nor did he hear Leahy talking continually as they reached the door.
“Pour it on, Montag.”
“What?”
“The kerosene.”
Montag stood looking in at the strange house, made strange by the hour of the night, by the murmur of neighbor voices, by the broken glass and the lights burning in each room, and there on the floor, their covers torn off, the pages spilled about like pigeon feathers, were his incredible books, and they looked so pitiful and silly and not worth bothering with there, for they were nothing but type and paper and raveled binding.
But he knew what he must do to quench the fire that was burning everything even before set ablaze. He stepped forward in a huge silence, and he picked up one of the pages of the books and he read what it had to say.
“I’ll memorize it,” he told himself. “And some day I’ll write it down and make another book from what I remember.”
He had read three lines when Leahy snatched the paper away from him, wadded it into a ball, and tossed it over his shoulder.
“Oh, no, no,” said Leahy, smiling. “Because then we’d have to burn your mind, too. Mustn’t have that.”
“Ready!” said Leahy, stepping back.
“Ready,” said Montag, snapping the valve lock on the fire-thrower.
“Aim,” said Leahy.
“Aim.”
“Fire!”
“Fire!”
He burnt the television set and he burnt the radio and he burnt the motion picture projector and he burnt the films and the gossip papers and the litter of cosmetics on the table, and he took pleasure in it, and he burned the walls because he wanted to change everything, the chairs, the tables, the paintings, he didn’t want to remember that he had lived here with that strange woman who was an interchangeable part, who would forget him tomorrow, and who was, really, to be pitied, for she did not know anything about the world or the way it was run.
So he burned the room.
“The books, Montag, the books!”
He directed the fire at the books. The books leaped up and danced about, like roasted birds, their wings ablaze in red and yellow feathers. They fell in charred lumps. They twisted and went up in founts of spark and soot.
“Get Shakespeare there, get him!” said Leahy.
He burned Mr. Shakespeare to a turn.
He burned books, he burned them by the dozen, he burned books, with water dripping from his eyes.
“When you’re all done, Montag,” said Leahy. “You’re under arrest.”
Books Without Pages
THE HOUSE FELL INTO RED RUIN. IT BEDDED ITSELF DOWN to sleepy pink ashes and a smoke pall hung over it, rising straight to the sky. It was ten minutes after one in the morning. The crowd was going back into their houses, the fun was over.
Mr. Montag stood with the fire-thrower in his hands, great islands of perspiration standing out under his arms, his face dirty with soot. The three other firemen stood there in the darkness, their faces illumined faintly by the burnt house, by the house which Mr. Montag had just burned down so efficiently with kerosene, fire-thrower, and especial aim.
“All right, Montag,” said Leahy. “Come along. You’ve done your duty. Now you’re under arrest.”
“What’ve I done?’
“You know what you done, don’t ask. The books.”
“Why so much fuss over a few bits of paper?”
“We won’t stand here arguing, it’s cold.”
“Was it my wife called you, or one of her friends.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Was it my wife?’
Leahy nodded. “But her friends called about an hour ago. One way or the other, you’d have got it. That was pretty silly, quoting poetry around free and easy, Montag. Come on, now.”
“No,” said Montag.
He felt the fire-thrower in his hand. Leahy glanced at Montag’s trigger finger and saw what he intended before Montag himself had even considered it. After all, murder is always a new thing, and Montag knew nothing of murder, he knew only burning and burning things that people said were evil.
“But I know what’s really wrong with the world,” said Montag.
“Don’t!” screamed Leahy.
And then he was a shrieking blaze, a jumping sprawling, babbling thing, all aflame, writhing on the grass as Montag shot three more blasting squirts of liquid fire at him. The sounds Leahy made were horrible. He twisted in on himself, like a ridiculous black wax image and was silent.
The other two men stood appalled.
“Montag!”
He pointed the weapon at them. “Turn around!”
They turned. He beat them over the head with the weapon, he didn’t want to burn them, too. Then he turned the firethrower on the fire engine itself, set the trigger, and ran. The engine blew up, a hundred gallons of kerosene in one great flower of heat.
He ran away down the street and into an alley, thinking, that’s the end of you, Leahy, that’s the end of you and what you are.
He kept running.
He remembered the books and turned back.
“You’re a fool, a damned fool, an awful fool, but definitely a fool,” he told himself. “You idiot, you and your stinking temper. And you’ve ruined it all. At the very start, you ruin. But those women, those stupid women, they drove me to it with their nonsense!” he protested, in his mind.
“A fool, nevertheless, no better than them! We’ll save what we can, we’ll do what has to be done.”
He found the books where he had left them, beyond the garden fence. He heard voices yelling in the night and flash-beams jerked about. Other Fire Engines wailed from far off and police cars were arriving.
Mr. Montag took as many books as he could carry under each arm, ten on a side and staggered away down the alley. He hadn’t realized what a shock the evening had been to himself, but suddenly he fell and lay sobbing, weak, his legs folded. At a distance he heard running feet. Get up, he told himself. But he lay there. Get up, get up. But he cried like a child. He hadn’t wanted to kill anybody, not even Leahy, killing did nothing but kill something of yourself when you did it, and suddenly he saw Leahy again, a torch, screaming, and he shut his eyes and crawled his sooty fingers over his wet face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Everything at once. In one 24 hour period, the burning of a woman, the burning of books, the trip to the professor’s, Leahy, Shakespeare, trying to memorize, the sand and the sieve, the bank money, the printing press, the plan, the rage, the alarm, Mildred’s departure, the fire, Leahy into a torch, too much for any one day in any one life. Too much.
At last he was able to get to his feet, but the books were impossibly heavy. He staggered along the alley and the voices and sound faded behind him. He moved in darkness, panting.
“You must remember,” he said. “You must burn them or they’ll burn you. Burn them or they’ll burn you.”
Six blocks away the alley opened out onto a wide empty thoroughfare, that looked like an amphitheatre, so broad, so quiet, so clean, and him, alone, running across it, easily seen, easily shot down. He hid back in the shadows. There was a gas station nearby. First he must go there, clean up, wash, comb his hair, become presentable. Then, with books under arm, stroll calmly across that wide boulevard to get where he was going.
“Where am I going?”
He didn’t know.
THERE WAS THE WIDE BOULEVARD, a game for him to win, there was the vast bowling alley at two in the morning, and him dirty, his lungs like burning brooms in his chest, his mouth sucked dry from running, all of the lead in the world poured into his empty feet, and the gas station nearby like a big white metal flower open for the long night ahead.
The moon had set and a mist was come to shelter him and drive away the police helicopters. He saw them wavering, indecisive, a half mile off, like butterflies puzzled by autumn, dying with winter, and then they were landing, one by one, dropping softly to the streets where, turned into police cars, they would scream along the boulevard, continuing their search.
Approaching from the rear, Mr. Montag entered the men’s wash room. Through the tin wall he could hear a voice crying, “War has been declared! War has been declared. Ten minutes ago—” But the sound of washing his hands and rinsing his face and toweling himself dry cut the announcer’s voice away. Emerging from the washroom a cleaner, newer man, less suspect, having left ashes and dirt behind down the drain, Mr. Montag returned to his bundle of books, picked them up and walked as casual as a man looking for a bus, out upon the boulevard.
He looked north and south. The boulevard was as clean as a pinball machine, but, underneath, one could feel the electrical energy, the readiness to dart lights, flash red and blue, and out of nowhere, rolling like a silver ball, might flash the searchers. Two blocks away, there were a few headlights. He took a deep breath, and kept walking. He would have to chance it. A hundred yards across the boulevard in the open, plenty of time for a police car to run him down if one came.
There was a car
