Fahrenheit 451

“Why? You got a guilty conscience about something?”

Montag glanced up swiftly.

Beatty stood there looking at him steadily with his eyes, while his mouth opened and began to laugh, very softly.

One two three four five six seven days. And as many times he came out of the house and Clarisse was there somewhere in the world. Once he saw her shaking a walnut tree, once he saw her sitting on the lawn knitting a blue sweater, three or four times he found a bouquet of late flowers on his porch, or a handful of chestnuts in a little sack, or some autumn leaves neatly pi

“Why is it,” he said, one time, at the subway entrance, “I feel I’ve known you so many years?”

“Because I like you,” she said, “and I don’t want anything from you. And because we know each other.”

“You make me feel very old and very much like a father.”

“Now you explain,” she said, “why you haven’t any daughters like me, if you love children so much?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re joking!”

“I mean—” He stopped and shook his head. “Well, my wife, she… She just never wanted any children at all.”

The girl stopped smiling. “I’m sorry. I really, thought you were having fun at my expense. I’m a fool.”

“No, no,” he said. “It was a good question. It’s been a long time since anyone cared enough to ask. A good question.”

“Let’s talk about something else. Have you ever smelled old leaves? Don’t they smell like ci

“Why, yes, it is like ci

She looked at him with her clear dark eyes. “You always seem shocked.”

“It’s just I haven’t had time—”

“Did you look at the stretched-out billboards like I told you?”

“I think so. Yes.” He had to laugh.

“Your laugh sounds much nicer than it did.”

“Does it?”

“Much more relaxed.”

He felt at ease and comfortable. “Why aren’t you in school? I see you every day wandering around.”

“Oh, they don’t miss me,” she said. “I’m anti-social, they say. I don’t mix. It’s so strange. I’m very social indeed. It all depends on what you mean by social, doesn’t it? Social to me means talking about things like this.” She rattled some chestnuts that had fallen off the tree in the front yard. “Or talking about how strange the world is. Being with people is nice. But I don’t think it’s social to get a bunch of people together and then not let them talk, do you? An hour of TV class, an hour of basketball or baseball or ru

“You sound so very old.”

“Sometimes I’m ancient. I’m afraid of children my own age. They kill each other. Did it always used to be that way? My uncle says no. Six of my friends have been shot in the last year alone. Ten of them died in car wrecks. I’m afraid of them and they don’t like me because I’m afraid. My uncle says his grandfather remembered when children didn’t kill each other. But that was a long time ago when they had things different. They believed in responsibility, my uncle says. Do you know, I’m responsible. I was spanked when I needed it, years ago. And I do all the shopping and house-cleaning by hand.

“But most of all,” she said, “I like to watch people. Sometimes I ride the subway all day and look at them and listen to them. I just want to figure out who they are and what they want and where they’re going. Sometimes I even go to the Fun Parks and ride in the jet cars when they race on the edge of town at midnight and the police don’t care as long as they’re insured. As long as everyone has ten thousand insurance everyone’s happy. Sometimes I sneak around and listen in subways. Or I listen at soda fountains, and do you know what?”

“What?”

“People don’t talk about anything.”

“Oh, they must!”

“No, not anything. They name a lot of cars or clothes or swimming-pools mostly and say how swell! But they all say the same things and nobody says anything different from anyone else. And most of the time in the cafes they have the jokeboxes on and the same jokes most of the time, or the musical wall lit and all the coloured patterns ru

“Your uncle said, your uncle said. Your uncle must be a remarkable man.”

“He is. He certainly is. Well, I’ve got to be going. Goodbye, Mr. Montag.”

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye…”

One two three four five six seven days: the firehouse.

“Montag, you shin that pole like a bird up a tree.”

Third day.

“Montag, I see you came in the back door this time. The Hound bother you?”

“No, no.”

Fourth day.

“Montag, a fu

Five six seven days.

And then, Clarisse was gone. He didn’t know what there was about the afternoon, but it was not seeing her somewhere in the world. The lawn was empty, the trees empty, the street empty, and while at first he did not even know he missed her or was even looking for her, the fact was that by the time he reached the subway, there were vague stirrings of unease in him. Something was the matter, his routine had been disturbed. A simple routine, true, established in a short few days, and yet…? He almost turned back to make the walk again, to give her time to appear. He was certain if he tried the same route, everything would work out fine. But it was late, and the arrival of his train put a stop to his plan.

The flutter of cards, motion of hands, of eyelids, the drone of the time-voice in the firehouse ceiling “…one thirty-five. Thursday morning, November 4th… one thirty-six… one thirty-seven a.m…? The tick of the playing-cards on the greasy table-top, all the sounds came to Montag, behind his closed eyes, behind the barrier he had momentarily erected. He could feel the firehouse full of glitter and shine and silence, of brass colours, the colours of coins, of gold, of silver: The unseen men across the table were sighing on their cards, waiting.

“…one forty-five…” The voice-clock mourned out the cold hour of a cold morning of a still colder year.

“What’s wrong, Montag?”

Montag opened his eyes.

A radio hummed somewhere. “…war may be declared any hour. This country stands ready to defend its—”

The firehouse trembled as a great flight of jet planes whistled a single note across the black morning sky.

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