Something caught at one corner of his vision and he turned to look at the sky.
The police helicopters were rising, far away, like a flight of gray moths, spreading out, six of them. 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 cars, they would shriek along the boulevards or, just as suddenly, hop back into the air, continuing their search.
And here was the gas station. Approaching from the rear, Mr. Montag entered the men’s wash room. Through the tin wall he heard a radio voice crying, “War has been declared! Repeat—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, Mr. Montag walked as casually as a man looking for a bus, to the edge of the empty boulevard.
There it lay, a game for him to win, a vast bowling alley in the dark morning. The boulevard was as clean as a pinball machine, but underneath, somewhere, one could feel the electrical energy, the readiness to dark lights, flash red and blue, and out of nowhere, rolling like a silver ball, might thunder the searchers! Three blocks away, there were a few headlights. Montag drew a deep breath. His lungs were like burning brooms in his chest; his mouth was sucked dry from running. All of the iron in the world lay in his dragging feet.
He began to walk across the empty avenue.
A hundred yards across. He estimated. A hundred yards in the open, more than plenty of time for a police car to appear, see him, and run him down.
He listened to his own loud footsteps.
A car was corning. Its headlights leaped and caught Montag in full stride.
“Keep going.”
Montag faltered, got a new hold on his books, and forced himself not to freeze. Nor should be draw suspicion to himself by running. He was now one third of the way across. There was a growl from the car’s motor as it put on speed.
THE POLICE, THOUGHT MONTAG. They see me, of course. But walk slowly, quietly, don’t turn, don’t look, don’t seem concerned. Walk, that’s it, walk, walk.
The car was rushing at a terrific speed. A good one hundred miles an hour. Its horn blared. Its light flushed the concrete. The heat of the lights, it seemed, burned Montag’s cheeks and eyelids and brought the sweat coursing from his body.
He began to shuffle idiotically, then broke and run. The horn hooted. The motor sound whined higher. Montag sprinted. He dropped a book, whirled, hesitated, left it there, plunged on, yelling to himself, in the middle of concrete emptiness, the car a hundred feet away, closer, closer, hooting, pushing, rolling, screeching, the horn hunting, himself running, his legs up, down, out, back, his eyes blind in the flashing glare, the horn nearer, now on top of him!
They’ll run me down, they know who I am, it’s all over, thought Montag, it’s done!
He stumbled and fell.
An instant before reaching him, the wild car swerved around him and was gone. Falling had saved him.
Mr. Montag lay flat, his head down. Wisps of laughter trailed back with the blue car exhaust.
That wasn’t the police, thought Mr. Montag.
It was a carful of high school children, yelling, whistling, hurrahing. And they had seen a man, a pedestrian, a rarity, and they had yelled “Let’s get him!” They didn’t know he was the fugitive Mr. Montag; they were simply out for a night of roaring five hundred miles in a few moonlit hours, their faces icy with wind.
“They would have killed me,” whispered Montag to the shaking concrete under his bruised cheek. “For no reason at all in the world, they would have killed me.”
He got up and walked unsteadily to the far curb. Somehow, he had remembered to pick up the spilled books. He shuffled them, oddly, in his numb hands.
“I wonder if they were the ones who killed Clarisse.”
His eyes watered.
The thing that had saved him was falling flat. The driver of that car, seeing Montag prone, considered the possibility that running over a body at one hundred miles an hour might turn the car over and spill them all out. Now, if Montag had remained upright, things would have been far different…
Montag gasped. Far down the empty avenue, four blocks away, the car of laughing children had turned. Now it was racing back, picking up speed.
Montag dodged into an alley and was gone in the shadow long before the car returned.
THE HOUSE WAS SILENT.
Mr. Montag approached it from the back, creeping through the scent of daffodils and roses and wet grass. He touched the screen door, found it open, slipped in, tiptoed across the porch, and, behind the refrigerator in the kitchen, deposited three of the books. He waited, listening to the house.
“Mrs. Black, are you asleep up there?” he asked of the second floor in a whisper. “I hate to do this to you, but your husband did just as bad to others, never asking, never wondering, never worrying. You’re a fireman’s wife, Mrs. Black, and now it’s your house, and you in jail a while, for all the houses your husband has burned and people he’s killed.”
The ceiling did not reply.
Quietly, Montag slipped from the house and returned to the alley. The house was still dark; no one had heard him come or go.
He walked casually down the alley, and came to an all night, dimly lighted phone booth. He closed himself in the booth and dialed a number.
“I want to report an illegal ownership of books,” he said.
The voice sharpened on the other end. “The address?” He gave it and added, “Better get there before they burn them. Check the kitchen.”
Montag stepped out and stood in the cold night air, waiting. At a great distance he heard the fire sirens coming, coming to burn Mr. Black’s house while he was away at work, and make his wife stand shivering in the morning air while the roof dropped down. But now she was upstairs, deep in sleep.
“Good night, Mrs. Black,” said Montag. “You’ll excuse me—I have several other visits to make.”
A RAP AT THE DOOR.
“Professor Faber!”
Another rap and a long waiting. Then, from within, lights flickered on about the small house. After another pause, the front door opened.
“Who is it?” Faber cried, for the man who staggered in was in the dark for a moment and then rushing past. “Oh, Montag!”
“I’m going away,” said Montag, stumbling to a chair. “I’ve been a fool.”
Professor Faber stood at the door listening to the distant sirens wailing off like animals in the morning. “Someone’s been busy.”
“It worked.”
“At least you were a fool about the right things.” Faber shut the door, came back, and poured a drink for each of them. “I wondered what had happened to you.”
“I was delayed.” Montag patted his inside pocket. “The money’s here.” He took it out and laid it on the desk, then sat tiredly sipping his drink. “How do you feel?”
“This is the first night in many years I’ve fallen right to sleep,” said Faber. “That must mean I’m doing the right thing. I think we can trust me, now. Once, I didn’t think so.”
“People never trust themselves, but they never let others know. I suppose that’s why we do rash things, expose ourselves to positions from which we don’t dare retreat. Unconsciously, we fear we might give in, quit the fight, and so we do a foolish thing, like reading poetry to women.” Montag laughed at himself. “So I guess I’m on the run. It’ll be up to you to keep things moving.”
“I’ll do my damndest.” Faber sat down. “Tell me about it. What you did just now, I mean.”
“I hid my remaining books in four firemen’s homes. Then I telephoned an alarm. I figured I might be dead by morning, and I wanted to have done something before then.
“God, I’d like to have been there.”
“Yes, the places burned very well.”
“Where are you going now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try the factory section, follow the old rail lines, look up some of the hobo camps. I didn’t tell you this before—maybe I didn’t quite trust you yet, I don’t know—but they were in touch with me last year, wanting me to go underground with them.”
“With tramps?”
“There are a lot of Harvard degrees on the tracks between here and Los Angeles. What else can they do? Most of them are wanted and hunted in cities. They survive. I don’t think they have a plan for a revolution, though; I never heard them speak of it. They simply sit by their fires. Not a very lively group. But they might hide you now.”
“I’ll try. I’m heading for the river, I think, then the old factory district. I’ll keep in touch with you.”
“In Boston, then. I’m leaving on the three o’clock train tonight—or, rather, this morning. That’s not long from now. There’s a retired printer in Boston that I want to see with this money.”
“I’ll contact you there,” said Montag. “And get books from you when I need them, to plant in firemen’s houses across the country.”
MONTAG DRAINED HIS DRINK.
“Do you want to sleep here a while?” Faber asked.
“I’d better get going. I wouldn’t want you held responsible.”
“Let’s check.” Faber switched on the televisor. A voice was talking swiftly:
“—this evening. Montag has escaped, but we expect his arrest in
