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 jaw dropped and he opened his mouth to say something, then a God-like voice boomed. “All right, Montag, don’t move. We’ve got you, Montag!”
By the quiet fire, with six other men, Montag sat ten miles away, the light of the video screen on his face.
“Don’t run, Montag!”
The man turned and bolted. The crowd roared. The Hound leaped ahead.
“The poor son-of-a-bitch.”
A dozen shots rattled out. The man crumpled.
“Montag is dead, the search is over, a criminal is given his due!” cried the announcer.
The camera panned up near the dead man. Just before it showed his face, however, the screen went black.
“We now switch you to the Sky room of the Hotel Lux in Pittsburg for a half hour of dance music by—”
The stranger cut it off. “They couldn’t show the man’s face, naturally. Better if everyone thinks it’s Montag.”
The man put out his hand. “Welcome back from the dead, Mr. Montag.” Montag took the hand a moment. The man said, “My name is Stewart, former occupant of the T.S. Eliot Chair at Cambridge. That was before it became an Electrical Engineering school. This gentleman here is Dr. Simmons from U.C.L.A., wasn’t it, Doctor?” A nod.
“I don’t belong here,” said Montag. “I’ve been an idiot.”
“Rage makes idiots of us all, you can only be angry so long and then you blow up and do the wrong things, and it can’t be helped now.”
“I shouldn’t have come here, it might endanger you.”
“We’re used to that. We all made mistakes, too, or we wouldn’t be here. When we were separate individuals, all we had was rage. I struck a fireman who had come to demand my library in 2010. I had to run. I’ve been running ever since. And Dr. Simmons here …”
“I started quoting Donne in the midst of a genetics lecture one afternoon. You see? Fools, all of us.”
They looked into the fire for a moment.
“So you want to join us, Mr. Montag?’
“Yes.”
“What have you to offer.”
“The book of Job, no more, no less, I’m afraid.”
“The Book of Job will do very well. Where is it?”
“Here.” Montag touched his head.
“Ah-ha!” said Stewart. Simmons smiled.
“WHAT’S WRONG, ISN’T IT ALL RIGHT?” asked Montag.
“Better than all right, perfect. Mr. Montag, you have hit upon the secret of our organization. Living books, Mr. Montag, living books. Inside the old skull where no one can see.” He turned to Simmons. “Do we have a book of Job?”
“Only one. A man named Harris in Youngstown.”
“Mr. Montag.” The man reached out and held Montag’s shoulder firmly. “Walk slowly, and carefully, and take care of yourself. If anything should happen to Harris, you are the book of Job. Do you see how important you are?”
“It scares the hell out of me. At first I didn’t remember, and then, tonight, on the river, it suddenly came back, all of it.”
“Good. Many people are fast studies but don’t know it. Some of God’s simplest creatures have the ability called eidetic memory, the ability to remember entire pages of print at one glance. It has nothing to do with IQ. No offense, Mr. Montag. It varies. Would you like, one day, to read Plato’s Republic?”
“Of course.”
Stewart gestured to a man who had been sitting to one side. “Mr. Plato, if you please.”
The man began to talk. He stared into the fire idly, his hands filling a corncob pipe, unaware of the words tumbling from his lips. He talked for two minutes without a pause.
Stewart made the smallest move of his hand and the man stopped. “Perfect word for word memory, every word important, every word Plato’s,” said Stewart.
“And,” said the man who was Plato, “I don’t understand a damned word of it. I just say it. It’s up to you to understand.”
“None of it?”
“None. But I can’t get it out. Once it’s in, it’s like glue in a bottle, there for good. Mr. Stewart says it’s important, that’s good enough for me.”
“We’re old friends,” said Stewart. “Grew up together. Met a few years ago on that track, somewhere between here and Seattle, walking, me running away from the firemen, him away from cities.”
“Never liked cities. I always felt that cities owned men, that was all, and used men to keep themselves going, to keep machines oiled and dusted, so I got out. And then I met Stewart and he found out I had this eidetic memory
