Fahrenheit 451 PAGE 9 by Isac Asimov

 

Fahrenheit 451 PAGE 9 by Isac Asimov

Fahrenheit 451

 

PAGE 9

The open door looked at him with its great vacant eye.

"A natural error. Curiosity alone," said Beatty. "We don't get over?anxious or mad. We let the

fireman keep the book twenty ?four hours. If he hasn't burned it by then, we simply come and

burn it for him."


"Of course." Montag's mouth was dry.

"Well, Montag. Will you take another, later shift, today? Will we see you tonight perhaps?"

"I don't know," said Montag.

"What?" Beatty looked faintly surprised.

Montag shut his eyes. "I'll be in later. Maybe."

"We'd certainly miss you if you didn't show," said Beatty, putting his pipe in his pocket

thoughtfully.

I'll never come in again, thought Montag.

"Get well and keep well," said Beatty.

He turned and went out through the open door.

Montag watched through the window as Beatty drove away in his gleaming

yellow?flame?coloured beetle with the black, char?coloured tyres.

Across the street and down the way the other houses stood with their flat fronts. What was it

Clarisse had said one afternoon? "No front porches. My uncle says there used to be front

porches. And people sat there sometimes at night, talking when they wanted to talk, rocking, and

not talking when they didn't want to talk. Sometimes they just sat there and thought about things,

turned things over. My uncle says the architects got rid of the front porches because they didn't

look well. But my uncle says that was merely rationalizing it; the real reason, hidden underneath,

might be they didn't want people sitting like that, doing nothing, rocking, talking; that was the

wrong kind of social life. People talked too much. And they had time to think. So they ran off

with the porches. And the gardens, too. Not many gardens any more to sit around in. And look at



the furniture. No rocking?chairs any more. They're too comfortable. Get people up and running
around. My uncle says . . . and . . . my uncle . . . and . . . my uncle ..." Her voice faded.

Montag turned and looked at his wife, who sat in the middle of the parlour talking to an

announcer, who in turn was talking to her. "Mrs. Montag," he was saying. This, that and the

other. "Mrs. Montag?" Something else and still another. The converter attachment, which had

cost them one hundred dollars, automatically supplied her name whenever the announcer

addressed his anonymous audience, leaving a blank where the proper syllables could be filled in.

A special spot?wavex?scrambler also caused his televised image, in the area immediately about

his lips, to mouth the vowels and consonants beautifully. He was a friend, no doubt of it, a good

friend. "Mrs. Montag?now look right here."

Her head turned. Though she quite obviously was not listening.

Montag said, "It's only a step from not going to work today to not working tomorrow, to not

working at the firehouse ever again." ,

"You are going to work tonight, though, aren't you?" said Mildred.

"I haven't decided. Right now I've got an awful feeling I want to smash things and kill things :'

"Go take the beetle."

"No thanks."

"The keys to the beetle are on the night table. I always like to drive fast when I feel that way.

You get it up around ninetyfive and you feel wonderful. Sometimes I drive all night and come

back and you don't know it. It's fun out in the country. You hit rabbits, sometimes you hit dogs.

Go take the beetle."

"No, I don't want to, this time. I want to hold on to this funny thing. God, it's gotten big on me. I

don't know what it is. I'm so damned unhappy, I'm so mad, and I don't know why I feel like I'm

putting on weight. I feel fat. I feel like I've been saving up a lot of things, and don't know what. I

might even start reading books."

"They'd put you in jail, wouldn't they?" She looked at him as if he were behind the glass wall.

He began to put on his clothes, moving restlessly about the bedroom. "Yes, and it might be a

good idea. Before I hurt someone. Did you hear Beatty? Did you listen to him? He knows all the

answers. He's right. Happiness is important. Fun is everything. And yet I kept sitting there saying

to myself, I'm not happy, I'm not happy."

"I am." Mildred's mouth beamed. "And proud of it."

"I'm going to do something," said Montag. "I don't even know what yet, but I'm going to do

something big."

"I'm tired of listening to this junk," said Mildred, turning from him to the announcer again

Montag touched the volume control in the wall and the announcer was speechless.

"Millie?" He paused. "This is your house as well as mine. I feel it's only fair that I tell you

something now. I should have told you before, but I wasn't even admitting it to myself. I have

something I want you to see, something I've put away and hid during the past year, now and

again, once in a while, I didn't know why, but I did it and I never told you."

He took hold of a straight ?backed chair and moved it slowly and steadily into the hall near the

front door and climbed up on it and stood for a moment like a statue on a pedestal, his wife

standing under him, waiting. Then he reached up and pulled back the grille of the

air?conditioning system and reached far back inside to the right and moved still another sliding

sheet of metal and took out a book. Without looking at it he dropped it to the floor. He put his

hand back up and took out two books and moved his hand down and dropped the two books to



the floor. He kept moving his hand and dropping books, small ones, fairly large ones, yellow,

red, green ones. When he was done he looked down upon some twenty books lying at his wife's

feet.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't really think. But now it looks as if we're in this together."

Mildred backed away as if she were suddenly confronted by a pack of mice that had come up out

of the floor . He could hear her breathing rapidly and her face was paled out and her eyes were

fastened wide. She said his name over, twice, three times. Then moaning, she ran forward, seized

a book and ran toward the kitchen incinerator.

He caught her, shrieking. He held her and she tried to fight away from him, scratching.

"No, Millie, no! Wait! Stop it, will you? You don't know . . . stop it!" He slapped her face, he

grabbed her again and shook her.

She said his name and began to cry.

"Millie! '" he said. "Listen. Give me a second, will you? We can't do anything. We can't burn

these. I want to look at them, at least look at them once. Then if what the Captain says is true,

we'll burn them together, believe me, we'll burn them together. You must help me." He looked

down into her face and took hold of her chin and held her firmly. He was looking not only at her,

but for himself and what he must do, in her face. "Whether we like this or not, we're in it. I've

never asked for much from you in all these years, but I ask it now, I plead for it. We've got to

start somewhere here, figuring out why we're in such a mess, you and the medicine at night, and

the car, and me and my work. We're heading right for the cliff, Millie. God, I don't want to go

over. This isn't going to be easy. We haven't anything to go on, but maybe we can piece it out

and figure it and help each other. I need you so much right now, I can't tell you. If you love me at

all you'll put up with this, twenty ?four, forty?eight hours, that's all I ask, then it'll be over. I

promise, I swear! And if there is something here, just one little thing out of a whole mess of

things, maybe we can pass it on to someone else."

She wasn't fighting any more, so he let her go. She sagged away from him and slid down the

wall, and sat on the floor looking at the books. Her foot touched one and she saw this and pulled

her foot away.

"That woman, the other night, Millie, you weren't there. You didn't see her face. And Clarisse.

You never talked to her. I talked to her. And men like Beatty are afraid of her. I can't understand

it. Why should they be so afraid of someone like her? But I kept putting her alongside the

firemen in the house last night, and I suddenly realized I didn't like them at all, and I didn't like

myself at all any more. And I thought maybe it would be best if the firemen themselves were

burnt."

"Guy! "

The front door voice called softly:

"Mrs. Montag, Mrs. Montag, someone here, someone here, Mrs. Montag, Mrs. Montag, someone

here."

Softly.

They turned to stare at the door and the books toppled everywhere, everywhere in heaps.

"Beatty!" said Mildred.

"It can't be him."

"He's come back!" she whispered.

The front door voice called again softly. "Someone here ..."

"We won't answer." Montag lay back against the wall and then slowly sank to a crouching

position and began to nudge the books, bewilderedly, with his thumb, his forefinger. He was



shivering and he wanted above all to shove the books up through the ventilator again, but he

knew he could not face Beatty again. He crouched and then he sat and the voice of the front door

spoke again, more insistently. Montag picked a single small volume from the floor. "Where do

we begin?" He opened the book half?way and peered at it. "We begin by beginning, I guess."

"He'll come in," said Mildred, "and burn us and the books!"

The front door voice faded at last. There was a silence. Montag felt the presence of someone

beyond the door, waiting, listening. Then the footsteps going away down the walk and over the

lawn.

"Let's see what this is," said Montag.

He spoke the words haltingly and with a terrible selfconsciousness. He read a dozen pages here

and there and came at last to this:

" "It is computed that eleven thousand persons have at several times suffered death rather than

submit to break eggs at the smaller end.'"

Mildred sat across the hall from him. "What does it mean? It doesn't mean anything! The Captain

was right! "

"Here now," said Montag. "We'll start over again, at the beginning."



PART II

THE SIEVE AND THE SAND

THEY read the long afternoon through, while the cold November rain fell from the sky upon the

quiet house. They sat in the hall because the parlour was so empty and grey-looking without its

walls lit with orange and yellow confetti and sky-rockets and women in gold-mesh dresses and

men in black velvet pulling one-hundred-pound rabbits from silver hats. The parlour was dead

and Mildred kept peering in at it with a blank expression as Montag paced the floor and came

back and squatted down and read a page as many as ten times, aloud.

" "We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by

drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over, so in a series of kindnesses there is at last

one which makes the heart run over.'"

Montag sat listening to the rain.

"Is that what it was in the girl next door? I've tried so hard to figure."

"She's dead. Let's talk about someone alive, for goodness' sake."

Montag did not look back at his wife as he went trembling along the hall to the kitchen, where he

stood a long .time watching the rain hit the windows before he came back down the hall in the

grey light, waiting for the tremble to subside.

He opened another book.

" "That favourite subject, Myself.'"

He squinted at the wall. " "The favourite subject, Myself.'"

"I understand that one," said Mildred.

"But Clarisse's favourite subject wasn't herself. It was everyone else, and me. She was the first

person in a good many years I've really liked. She was the first person I can remember who

looked straight at me as if I counted."