“I can’t stay here,” said Montag, getting up, his eyes still fixed to the scene. The Electric Hound shot forward to the ruins, the man running after it. A coat was brought forward. Montag recognized it as his own, dropped in the back yard during flight. The Electric Hound studied this implacably. There was a clicking and whirring of dials and meters.
“You can’t escape,” Faber sighed and turned away. “I’ve heard about that damned Hound. No one has ever escaped.”
“I’ll try anyway. I’m sorry, Professor.”
“About me, about this house? Don’t be. I’m only sorry we didn’t have time to do more.”
“Wait a minute.” Montag moved forward. “There’s no use your being discovered. We can wipe out the trail here. First the chair. Get me a knife.”
Faber ran and brought a knife. With it, Montag attacked the chair where he had been sitting. He cut the upholstery out, into bits, then he shoved it, bit by bit, into the wall incinerator. “Now,” he said, “After I leave, rip up the carpet, it has my footprints on it, cut it up, burn it, leave the floor bare. Rub the doorknobs with alcohol, and after I’ve left here, turn the garden sprinkler on full. That’ll wash away every trace.”
Faber shook his hand vigorously. “Thank you, thank you! You don’t know what this means. I’ll do anything to help you in the future. The plan can go on then, if they don’t burn my house.”
“Of course. Do as I say. And one more thing. A suitcase, get it, fill it with your dirty laundry, the dirtier the better, some denim pants, a shirt, some old sneakers and socks.”
“I understand.” Faber was gone, and back in a minute with a suitcase which they sealed with scotch tape. “To keep the odor in,” said Montag, breathlessly. He swabbed the suitcase with a thick pouring of cognac and whiskey. “I won’t want that Hound to pick up two odors at once. When I get a safe distance away, at the river, I’ll change clothes.”
“And identities. From Montag to Faber.”
“Christ, I hope it works! If your clothes are strong enough, which God knows they seem to be, I might at least confuse the Hound.”
“Try it, anyway.”
“Now, no more talk. I’ll run.”
They shook hands again and looked at the screen. The Electric Hound was on its way, followed by mobile camera TV units, through alleys and across empty morning streets, silently, silently, sniffing the great night wind for Mr. Leonard Montag, going on through the town to bring him to justice.
“We’ll show the Hound a thing or two,” said Montag.
“Good luck.”
“Be seeing you.”
And he was out the door, lightly, running with the suitcase. Behind him, he saw and felt and heard the garden sprinkler system jump up, filling the dark air with moisture to wash away the smell of a man named Montag. Through the back window, the last thing he saw was Faber tearing up the carpet and cramming it in the wall incinerator.
Montag ran.
Behind him, in the city, ran the electric Hound.
HE STOPPED NOW AND AGAIN, across town, to watch through the dimly lighted windows of wakened houses. He peered in at silhouettes of people before television screens, and there on the screens saw where the Electric Hound was, now at Elm Terrace, now at Lincoln Avenue, now at 34th Avenue, now up the alley toward Mr. Faber’s, now at Faber’s!
Montag held his breath.
Now passing on! Leaving Faber’s behind. For a moment the TV camera scanned Faber’s. The house was dark. In the garden, the water was sprinkling in the cool air, softly.
The Electric hound jumped ahead, down the alley.
“Sleep tight, professor.” And Montag was gone, again, racing toward the distant river.
As he ran, he put the Thimble in his ear and a voice ran with him every step of the way with the beat of his heart and the sound of his shoes on the gravel: “Look for the pedestrian, look for the pedestrian, citizens, look for the pedestrian. Any one on the sidewalks or in the street, walking or running, is suspect, look for the pedestrian!” How simple, of course, in a city where no one walked. Look, look for the Walking Man, the man who proves his legs. Thank god for good dark alleys where men can walk or run in peace. House lights flashed on all about, porch lights. Montag saw faces peering streetward as he passed behind them, faces hid by curtains, pale, night-frightened faces like animals peering from electric caves, faces with grey eyes and grey souls, and then he hurried on, panting, leaving them to their tasks, and in another minute was at the black, moving river.
The boat floated easily on a long silence of river and went down stream away from the town, bobbing and whispering, while he stripped in darkness down to the flesh, and splashed his body, his arms, legs, and face with raw alcohol. Then he changed into Faber’s old clothing and shoes. Whether the stratagem would work or not, there was no way of telling. There could be a delay while they rode the electric Hound up and down river to see where a man named Montag had stepped ashore. Whether or not the smell of Faber would be strong enough, with the aid of raw alcohol, to cover the familiar scent of Montag, was something else again. He must remember to cover his mouth with an alcohol soaked rag after stepping ashore, the particles of his breathing might remain in an invisible cloud for hours after he had passed on.
He saw the distant black butterflies in the sky, three police helicopters bumbling in the air, throwing down great legs of yellow light with which they strode over the earth ahead of the Electric Hound. They were as remote as autumn moths now, but in a few minutes … ? He couldn’t wait any longer. He was below the town now, in a lonely place of weeds and old rail tracks. He rowed the boat in toward shore, poured the rest of the alcohol on his handkerchief, tied it over his nose and mouth, and leaped out as the boat touched briefly upon the shore.
The current took the boat and the clothes away from him, turning slowly. “Farewell to Mr. Montag,” he said. “Hello, Mr. Faber.”
He ran into the woods as the sun was rising.
IT WAS AN OLD SECTION OF TOWN. He found his way along railroad tracks that had not been used in a dozen years, crusted with brown rust and overgrown with weeds. He listened to his feet moving in the long grass. He paused now and then and checked behind to see if he was followed, but there was nothing.
Firelight shone ahead, and as he came into its illumination he saw a half dozen figures gathered about the light, their hands out to the flames, conversing quietly. In the distance, a train rolled along a track and was gone.
Montag waited half an hour in the shadows. And then a voice called to him. “All right, you can come out now.”
He shrank back. “It’s okay,” said the voice. “You’re welcome.”
He let himself stand forth and then he walked toward the fire, peering at the men there.
“Sit down,” said the man who seemed to be the leader of the little group. “Have some coffee.”
He watched the dark steaming mixture poured into a collapsible cup which was handed him straight-off. He sipped it gingerly and felt the scald on his lips. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. We don’t want to know who you are or where you’re from. We’re all named Smith. That’s the way it is.”
“A good way.” Montag sipped again and winced.
“Take this,” said the man, holding out a small bottle.
“What is it?”
“Take it. Whoever you are now, a few hours from now you’ll be someone else. It does something to the perspiratory system. It changes the content of your sweat. Drink it and stay here, otherwise you’ll have to move on. If there’s a Hound after you you’ll be bad company.”
Montag hesitated, then drank. The fluid stung and was bitter on its way. He was sick for a moment, a blackness in his eyes, and a roaring in his head. Then it passed.
“That’s better.” The man took back the empty bottle. “Later, if you want, we can use plastic surgery on your face. Until then, you’ll have to stay out of sight.”
“How did you know you could trust me?”
The man gestured to the small radio beside the fire.
“We’ve been listening.”
“Quite a chase.”
They turned the radio up. “The chase is now veering south along the river. On the eastern shore the police helicopters are converging on Avenue 87 and Elm Grove Park.”
“You’re safe,” said the stranger. “They’re faking. You threw them off at the river, but they can’t admit it. Must be a million people listening and watching that bunch hound after you. They’ll catch you in five minutes. Watch.”
“But if they’re ten miles away, how can they …”
“Look.”
He turned the TV up.
“Up that street somewhere is a poor son-of-a-bitch, out for an early morning walk, maybe, having a smoke, taking it easy. Call him Billings or Brown or Baumgartner, but the search is getting near him every minute. There! See!”
In the video screen a man turned a corner. The Hound rushed forward, screeching.
“There’s Montag now!” shouted the radio voice.
“The search is over!”
The innocent man stood watching the crowd come on. In his hand was a cigarette, half smoked. He looked at the Hound and his
