[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
one. Don't think the police don't know the habits of queer
ducks like that, men who walk mornings for the hell of it,
or for reasons of insomnia. Anyway, the police have had him
charted for months, years. Never know when that sort of
information might be handy. And today, it turns out, it's
very usable indeed. It saves face. Oh, God, look there!"
The men at the fire bent forward.
On the screen, a man turned a corner. The Mechanical Hound
rushed forward into the viewer, suddenly. The helicopter
light shot down a dozen brilliant pillars that built a cage
all about the man.
A voice cried, "There's Montag! The search is done!"
The innocent man stood bewildered, a cigarette burning in
his hand. He stared at the Hound, not knowing what it was.
He probably never knew. He glanced up at the sky and the
wailing sirens. The cameras rushed down. The Hound leapt up
into the air with a rhythm and a sense of timing that was
incredibly beautiful. Its needle shot out. It was suspended
for a moment in their gaze, as if to give the vast audience
time to appreciate everything, the raw look of the victim's
face, the empty street, the steel animal a bullet nosing the
target.
"Montag, don't move!" said a voice from the sky.
The camera fell upon the victim, even as did the Hound. Both
reached him simultaneously. The victim was seized by Hound
and camera in a great spidering, clenching grip. He
screamed. He screamed. He screamed!
Blackout.
Silence.
Darkness.
Montag cried out in the silence and turned away.
Silence.
And then, after a time of the men sitting around the fire,
their faces expressionless, an announcer on the dark screen
said, "The search is over, Montag is dead; a crime against
society has been avenged."
Darkness.
"We now take you to the Sky Room of the Hotel Lux for a
half-hour of Just-Before-Dawn, a programme of-"
Granger turned it off.
"They didn't show the man's face in focus. Did you notice?
Even your best friends couldn't tell if it was you. They
scrambled it just enough to let the imagination take over.
Hell," he whispered. "Hell."
Montag said nothing but now, looking back, sat with his eyes
fixed to the blank screen, trembling.
Granger touched Montag's arm. "Welcome back from the dead."
Montag nodded. Granger went on. "You might as well know all
of us, now. This is Fred Clement, former occupant of the
Thomas Hardy chair at Cambridge in the years before it
became an Atomic Engineering School. This other is Dr.
Simmons from U.C.L.A., a specialist in Ortega y Gasset;
Professor West here did quite a bit for ethics, an ancient
study now, for Columbia University quite some years ago.
Reverend Padover here gave a few lectures thirty years ago
and lost his flock between one Sunday and the next for his
views. He's been bumming with us some time now. Myself: I
wrote a book called The Fingers in the Glove; the Proper
Relationship between the Individual and Society, and here I
am! Welcome, Montag!"
"I don't belong with you," said Montag, at last, slowly.
"I've been an idiot all the way."
"We're used to that. We all made the right kind of mistakes,
or we wouldn't be here. When we were separate individuals,
all we had was rage. I struck a fireman when he came to burn
my library years ago. I've been running ever since. You want
to join us, Montag?"
"Yes."
"What have you to offer?"
"Nothing. I thought I had part of the Book of Ecclesiastes
and maybe a little of Revelation, but I haven't even that
now."
"The Book of Ecclesiastes would be fine. Where was it?"
"Here," Montag touched his head.
"Ah," Granger smiled and nodded.
"What's wrong? Isn't that all right?" said Montag.
"Better than all right; perfect!" Granger turned to the
Reverend. "Do we have a Book of Ecclesiastes?"
"One. A man named Harris of Youngstown."
"Montag." Granger took Montag's shoulder firmly. "Walk
carefully. Guard your health. If anything should happen to
Harris, you are the Book of Ecclesiastes. See how important
you've become in the last minute!"
"But I've forgotten!"
"No, nothing's ever lost. We have ways to shake down your
clinkers for you."
"But I've tried to remember!"
"Don't try. It'll come when we need it. All of us have
photographic memories, but spend a lifetime learning how to
block off the things that are really in there. Simmons here
has worked on it for twenty years and now we've got the
method down to where we can recall anything that's been read
once. Would you like, some day, Montag, to read Plato's
Republic?"
"Of course!"
"I am Plato's Republic. Like to read Marcus Aurelius? Mr.
Simmons is Marcus."
"How do you do?" said Mr. Simmons.
"Hello," said Montag.
"I want you to meet Jonathan Swift, the author of that evil
political book, Gulliver's Travels! And this other fellow is
Charles Darwin, and-this one is Schopenhauer, and this one
is Einstein, and this one here at my elbow is Mr. Albert
Schweitzer, a very kind philosopher indeed. Here we all are,
Montag. Aristophanes and Mahatma Gandhi and Gautama Buddha
and Confucius and Thomas Love Peacock and Thomas Jefferson
and Mr. Lincoln, if you please. We are also Matthew, Mark,
Luke, and John."
Everyone laughed quietly.
"It can't be," said Montag.
"It is," replied Granger, smiling. "We're book-burners, too.
We read the books and burnt them, afraid they'd be found.
Micro-filming didn't pay off; we were always travelling, we
didn't want to bury the film and come back later. Always the
chance of discovery. Better to keep it in the old heads,
where no one can see it or suspect it. We are all bits and
pieces of history and literature and international law,
Byron, Tom Paine, Machiavelli, or Christ, it's here. And the
hour is late. And the war's begun. And we are out here, and
the city is there, all wrapped up in its own coat of a
thousand colours. What do you think, Montag?"
"I think I was blind trying to do things my way, planting
books in firemen's houses and sending in alarms."
"You did what you had to do. Carried out on a national
scale, it might have worked beautifully. But our way is
simpler and, we think, better. All we want to do is keep the
knowledge we think we will need, intact and safe. We're not
out to incite or anger anyone yet. For if we are destroyed,
the knowledge is dead, perhaps for good. We are model
citizens, in our own special way; we walk the old tracks, we
lie in the hills at night, and the city people let us be.
We're stopped and searched occasionally, but there's nothing
on our persons to incriminate us. The organization is
flexible, very loose, and fragmentary. Some of us have had
plastic surgery on our faces and fingerprints. Right now we
have a horrible job; we're waiting for the war to begin and,
as quickly, end. It's not pleasant, but then we're not in
control, we're the odd minority crying in the wilderness.
When the war's over, perhaps we can be of some use in the
world."
"Do you really think they'll listen then?"
"If not, we'll just have to wait. We'll pass the books on to
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]