Fahrenheit 451 PAGE 2

Fahrenheit 451

PAGE 2

The girl's face was there, really quite

beautiful in memory: astonishing, in fact. She had a very thin face like the dial of a small clock

seen faintly in a dark room in the middle of a night when you waken to see the time and see the

clock telling you the hour and the minute and the second, with a white silence and a glowing, all

certainty and knowing what it has to tell of the night passing swiftly on toward further


darknesses but moving also toward a new sun.

"What?" asked Montag of that other self, the subconscious idiot that ran babbling at times, quite

independent of will, habit, and conscience.

He glanced back at the wall. How like a mirror, too, her face. Impossible; for how many people

did you know that refracted your own light to you? People were more often-he searched for a

simile, found one in his work-torches, blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other

people's faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your own innermost

trembling thought?

What incredible power of identification the girl had; she was like the eager watcher of a

marionette show, anticipating each flicker of an eyelid, each gesture of his hand, each flick of a

finger, the moment before it began. How long had they walked together? Three minutes? Five?



Yet how large that time seemed now. How immense a figure she was on the stage before him;
what a shadow she threw on the wall with her slender body! He felt that if his eye itched, she
might blink. And if the muscles of his jaws stretched imperceptibly, she would yawn long before
he would.

Why, he thought, now that I think of it, she almost seemed to be waiting for me there, in the
street, so damned late at night ....
He opened the bedroom door.

It was like coming into the cold marbled room of a mausoleum after the moon had set. Complete
darkness, not a hint of the silver world outside, the windows tightly shut, the chamber a tomb-
world where no sound from the great city could penetrate. The room was not empty.
He listened.

The little mosquito-delicate dancing hum in the air, the electrical murmur of a hidden wasp snug
in its special pink warm nest. The music was almost loud enough so he could follow the tune.
He felt his smile slide away, melt, fold over, and down on itself like a tallow skin, like the stuff
of a fantastic candle burning too long and now collapsing and now blown out. Darkness. He was
not happy. He was not happy. He said the words to himself. He recognized this as the true state
of affairs. He wore his happiness like a mask and the girl had run off across the lawn with the
mask and there was no way of going to knock on her door and ask for it back.
Without turning on the light he imagined how this room would look. His wife stretched on the
bed, uncovered and cold, like a body displayed on the lid of a tomb, her eyes fixed to the ceiling
by invisible threads of steel, immovable. And in her ears the little Seashells, the thimble radios
tamped tight, and an electronic ocean of sound, of music and talk and music and talk coming in,
coming in on the shore of her unsleeping mind. The room was indeed empty. Every night the
waves came in and bore her off on their great tides of sound, floating her, wide-eyed, toward
morning. There had been no night in the last two years that Mildred had not swum that sea, had
not gladly gone down in it for the third time.

The room was cold but nonetheless he felt he could not breathe. He did not wish to open the
curtains and open the french windows, for he did not want the moon to come into the room. So,
with the feeling of a man who will die in the next hour for lack of air,.he felt his way toward his
open, separate, and therefore cold bed.

An instant before his foot hit the object on the floor he knew he would hit such an object. It was
not unlike the feeling he had experienced before turning the corner and almost knocking the girl
down. His foot, sending vibrations ahead, received back echoes of the small barrier across its
path even as the foot swung. His foot kicked. The object gave a dull clink and slid off in
darkness.

He stood very straight and listened to the person on the dark bed in the completely featureless
night. The breath coming out of the nostrils was so faint it stirred only the furthest fringes of life,
a small leaf, a black feather, a single fibre of hair.

He still did not want outside light. He pulled out his igniter, felt the salamander etched on its
silver disc, gave it a flick....

Two moonstones looked up at him in the light of his small hand-held fire; two pale moonstones
buried in a creek of clear water over which the life of the world ran, not touching them.
"Mildred ! "

Her face was like a snow-covered island upon which rain might fall; but it felt no rain; over
which clouds might pass their moving shadows, but she felt no shadow. There was only the
singing of the thimble-wasps in her tamped-shut ears, and her eyes all glass, and breath going in



and out, softly, faintly, in and out of her nostrils, and her not caring whether it came or went,

went or came.

The object he had sent tumbling with his foot now glinted under the edge of his own bed. The

small crystal bottle of sleeping-tablets which earlier today had been filled with thirty capsules

and which now lay uncapped and empty in the light of the tiny flare.

As he stood there the sky over the house screamed. There was a tremendous ripping sound as if

two giant hands had torn ten thousand miles of black linen down the seam. Montag was cut in

half. He felt his chest chopped down and split apart. The jet-bombs going over, going over, going

over, one two, one two, one two, six of them, nine of them, twelve of them, one and one and one

and another and another and another, did all the screaming for him. He opened his own mouth

and let their shriek come down and out between his bared teeth . The house shook. The flare went

out in his hand. The moonstones vanished. He felt his hand plunge toward the telephone.

The jets were gone. He felt his lips move, brushing the mouthpiece of the phone. "Emergency

hospital." A terrible whisper.

He felt that the stars had been pulverized by the sound of the black jets and that in the morning

the earth would be thought as he stood shivering in the dark, and let his lips go on moving and

moving.

They had this machine. They had two machines, really. One of them slid down into your

stomach like a black cobra down an echoing well looking for all the old water and the old time

gathered there. It drank up the green matter that flowed to the top in a slow boil. Did it drink of

the darkness? Did it suck out all the poisons accumulated with the years? It fed in silence with an

occasional sound of inner suffocation and blind searching. It had an Eye. The impersonal

operator of the machine could, by wearing a special optical helmet, gaze into the soul of the

person whom he was pumping out. What did the Eye see? He did not say. He saw but did not see

what the Eye saw. The entire operation was not unlike the digging of a trench in one's yard. The

woman on the bed was no more than a hard stratum of marble they had reached. Go on, anyway,

shove the bore down, slush up the emptiness, if such a thing could be brought out in the throb of

the suction snake. The operator stood smoking a cigarette. The other machine was working too.

The other machine was operated by an equally impersonal fellow in non-stainable reddish-brown

overalls. This machine pumped all of the blood from the body and replaced it with fresh blood

and serum.

"Got to clean 'em out both ways," said the operator, standing over the silent woman. "No use

getting the stomach if you don't clean the blood. Leave that stuff in the blood and the blood hits

the brain like a mallet, bang, a couple of thousand times and the brain just gives up, just quits."

"Stop it!" said Montag.

"I was just sayin'," said the operator.

"Are you done?" said Montag.

They shut the machines up tight. "We're done." His anger did not even touch them. They stood

with the cigarette smoke curling around their noses and into their eyes without making them

blink or squint. "That's fifty bucks."

"First, why don't you tell me if she'll be all right?"

"Sure, she'll be O.K. We got all the mean stuff right in our suitcase here, it can't get at her now.

As I said, you take out the old and put in the new and you're O.K."

"Neither of you is an M.D. Why didn't they send an M.D. from Emergency?"

"Hell! " the operator's cigarette moved on his lips. "We get these cases nine or ten a night. Got so

many, starting a few years ago, we had the special machines built. With the optical lens, of



course, that was new; the rest is ancient. You don't need an M.D., case like this; all you need is
two handymen, clean up the problem in half an hour. Look"-he started for the door-"we gotta go.
Just had another call on the old ear-thimble. Ten blocks from here. Someone else just jumped off
the cap of a pillbox. Call if you need us again. Keep her quiet. We got a contra- sedative in her.
She'll wake up hungry. So long."

And the men with the cigarettes in their straight-lined mouths, the men with the eyes of puff-
adders, took up their load of machine and tube, their case of liquid melancholy and the slow dark
sludge of nameless stuff, and strolled out the door.

Montag sank down into a chair and looked at this woman. Her eyes were closed now, gently, and
he put out his hand to feel the warmness of breath on his palm.
"Mildred," he said, at last.

There are too many of us, he thought. There are billions of us and that's too many. Nobody
knows anyone. Strangers come and violate you. Strangers come and cut your heart out. Strangers
come and take your blood. Good God, who were those men? I never saw them before in my life !
Half an hour passed.

The bloodstream in this woman was new and it seemed to have done a new thing to her. Her
cheeks were very pink and her lips were very fresh and full of colour and they looked soft and
relaxed. Someone else's blood there. If only someone else's flesh and brain and memory. If only
they could have taken her mind along to the dry-cleaner's and emptied the pockets and steamed
and cleansed it and reblocked it and brought it back in the morning. If only . . .
He got up and put back the curtains and opened the windows wide to let the night air in. It was
two o'clock in the morning. Was it only an hour ago, Clarisse McClellan in the street, and him
coming in, and the dark room and his foot kicking the little crystal bottle? Only an hour, but the
world had melted down and sprung up in a new and colourless form.

Laughter blew across the moon-coloured lawn from the house of Clarisse and her father and
mother and the uncle who smiled so quietly and so earnestly. Above all, their laughter was
relaxed and hearty and not forced in any way, coming from the house that was so brightly lit this
late at night while all the other houses were kept to themselves in darkness. Montag heard the
voices talking, talking, talking, giving, talking, weaving, reweaving their hypnotic web.
Montag moved out through the french windows and crossed the lawn, without even thinking of
it. He stood outside the talking house in the shadows, thinking he might even tap on their door
and whisper, "Let me come in. I won't say anything. I just want to listen. What is it you're
saying?"

But instead he stood there, very cold, his face a mask of ice, listening to a man's voice (the
uncle?) moving along at an easy pace:

"Well, after all, this is the age of the disposable tissue.
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