A Pleasure to Burn

by Ray Bradbury

  “Billett, are you asleep up there?” he asked of the second floor in a whisper. “I hate to do this to you, but you did it to others, never asking, never wondering, never worrying. Now it’s your house, and you in jail awhile, all the houses you’ve burned and people you’ve killed.”

  The ceiling did not reply.

  Quietly, Montag slipped from the house and returned to the alley. The house was still dark, no one had heard him come or go.

  He walked casually down the alley, around a block to an all night druggist’s, where he closed himself in a booth and dialed a number.

  “Hello?”

  “I want to report an illegal ownership of books,” he said.

  The voice sharpened on the other end. “The address?”

  “11 South Grove Glade.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend, no name. Better get there before he burns them.”

  “We’ll get there, thanks.” Click.

  Montag stepped out and walked down the street. Far away, he heard sirens coming, coming to burn Mr. Billett’s house, and him upstairs, not knowing, deep in sleep.

  “Good night, Mr. Billett,” said Montag.

  A RAP AT THE DOOR.

  “Professor Faber!”

  Another rap and a long silence. And then, from within, the lights flickering on as the Professor sat up in bed, cutting the selenium rays in his room, all about the house the lights winked on, like eyes opening up.

  Professor Faber opened the door. “Who is it?” he said, for the man who catered was scarcely recognizable. “Oh, Montag!”

  “I’m going away,” said Montag, stumbling to a chair. “I’ve been a fool.”

  Professor Faber stood at the door half a minute, listening to the distant sirens wailing off like animals in the morning. “Someone’s been busy.”

  “It worked.”

  “At least you were a fool about the right things.” Faber shut the door, came back, and poured a drink for each of them. “I wondered what had happened to you.”

  “I was delayed. But the money is here.” He took it from his pocket and laid it on the desk, then sat there and tiredly sipped his drink. “How do you feel?”

  “This is the first night I’ve fallen right to sleep in years,” said Faber. “That must mean I’m doing the correct thing. I think we can trust me, now. I didn’t.”

  “People never trust themselves, but they never let others know. I suppose that’s why we do rash things, to expose ourselves in such a position we do not dare retreat. Unconsciously, we fear that we may give in, quit the fight, and so we do a foolish thing, like read poetry to women.” He laughed at himself. “So I guess I’ll be on the run now. It’s up to you to keep things moving.”

  “I’ll do my damndest,” Faber sat down. “Tell me about it. What you did just now, I mean.”

  “I hid the books in three houses, in different places in each house so it would not look planned. Then I telephoned the firemen.”

  Faber shook his head. “God, I’d like to have been there. Did the places burn!”

  “Yes, they burned very well.”

  “Where are you going now?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll keep in touch with you. You can leave some books for me to use, from time to time, in vacant lots. I’ll call you.”

  “Of course. Do you want to sleep here for a while?”

  “I’d better get going, I wouldn’t want you to be held responsible for my being here.”

  “Just a moment. Let’s listen.” Faber waved his hand three times at the radio and it came on, with a voice talking rapidly.

  “—this evening. Montag has escaped but will be found. Citizens are alerted to watch for this man. Five foot ten, 170 pounds, blond-brown hair, blue eyes, healthy complexion. Here’s a bulletin. The Electric Dog is being transported here from Albany.”

  Montag and Faber glanced at each other, eyebrows up.

  “—you may recall the stories recently of this new invention, a machine so delicate that it can follow a trail, much in the way bloodhounds have done for centuries. But this machine always finds its quarry, without fail!”

  Montag put his drink down and he was cold.

  “The machine is self-operating, on a miniature cell motor, weighs about sixty pounds, and is propelled on a series of seven rubber wheels. The front part of this machine is a nose which, in reality, is a thousand noses, so sensitive they can distinguish ten thousand foods, five thousand flower smells, and remember the identity index odors of 15,000 men without resetting.”

  Faber began to tremble. He looked at his house, at the door, the floor, the chair in which Montag sat. Montag interpreted this look. They both looked together at the invisible trail of footprints leading to this house, coming across this room, the fingerprints on the door knob, and the smell of his body in the air and on this chair.

  “The Electric Hound is now landing, by helicopter, at the burned Montag house, we take you there by TV control!”

  And there was the burned house, the crowd, and something with a sheet over it, Mr. Leahy, yes, Mr. Leahy, and out of the sky, fluttering, came the red helicopter, landing like a grotesque flower while the police pushed back the crowd and the wind blew the women’s dresses.

  Mr. Montag watched the scene with a solid fascination, not wanting to move, ever. If he wished, he could sit here, in comfort, and follow the entire hunt on through its phases, down alleys, up streets, across empty running avenues, with the sky lightening to dawn, up other alleys to burned houses, so on to this place here, this house, with Faber and himself seated here at their leisure, smoking idly, drinking good wine, while the Electric Hound sniffed down the paths, wailing, and stopped outside that door right there, and then, if he wished, Montag could rise, go to the door, keeping one eye on the television screen, open the door, and look out, and look back, and see himself standing there, limned in the bright screen, from outside, a drama to be watched objectively, and he would watch himself, for an instant before oblivion, being killed for the benefit of a TV audience that was thousands bigger now, for the TV stations across the country were probably beeping-beeping to waken the viewer to a Scoop!

  “There it is,” said Faber.

  Out of the helicopter came something that was not a machine, not an animal, not dead, not alive, just moving. It glowed with a green light, like phosphorescence from the sea, and it was on a long leash, and behind it came a man, dressed lightly, with earphones on his shaven head.

  “I can’t stay here,” said Montag, getting up, his eyes still fixed to the scene. The Electric Hound shot forward to the ruins, the man running after it. A coat was brought forward. Montag recognized it as his own, dropped in the back yard during flight. The Electric Hound studied this implacably. There was a clicking and whirring of dials and meters.

  “You can’t escape,” Faber sighed and turned away. “I’ve heard about that damned Hound. No one has ever escaped.”

  “I’ll try anyway. I’m sorry, Professor.”

  “About me, about this house? Don’t be. I’m only sorry we didn’t have time to do more.”

  “Wait a minute.” Montag moved forward. “There’s no use your being discovered. We can wipe out the trail here. First the chair. Get me a knife.”

  Faber ran and brought a knife. With it, Montag attacked the chair where he had been sitting. He cut the upholstery out, into bits, then he shoved it, bit by bit, into the wall incinerator. “Now,” he said, “After I leave, rip up the carpet, it has my footprints on it, cut it up, burn it, leave the floor bare. Rub the doorknobs with alcohol, and after I’ve left here, turn the garden sprinkler on full. That’ll wash away every trace.”

  Faber shook his hand vigorously. “Thank you, thank you! You don’t know what this means. I’ll do anything to help you in the future. The plan can go on then, if they don’t burn my house.”

  “Of course. Do as I say. And one more thing. A suitcase, get it, fill it with your dirty laundry, the dirtier the better, some denim pants,
a shirt, some old sneakers and socks.”

  “I understand.” Faber was gone, and back in a minute with a suitcase which they sealed with scotch tape. “To keep the odor in,” said Montag, breathlessly. He swabbed the suitcase with a thick pouring of cognac and whiskey. “I won’t want that Hound to pick up two odors at once. When I get a safe distance away, at the river, I’ll change clothes.”

  “And identities. From Montag to Faber.”

  “Christ, I hope it works! If your clothes are strong enough, which God knows they seem to be, I might at least confuse the Hound.”

  “Try it, anyway.”

  “Now, no more talk. I’ll run.”

  They shook hands again and looked at the screen. The Electric Hound was on its way, followed by mobile camera TV units, through alleys and across empty morning streets, silently, silently, sniffing the great night wind for Mr. Leonard Montag, going on through the town to bring him to justice.

  “We’ll show the Hound a thing or two,” said Montag.

  “Good luck.”

  “Be seeing you.”

  And he was out the door, lightly, running with the suitcase. Behind him, he saw and felt and heard the garden sprinkler system jump up, filling the dark air with moisture to wash away the smell of a man named Montag. Through the back window, the last thing he saw was Faber tearing up the carpet and cramming it in the wall incinerator.

  Montag ran.

  Behind him, in the city, ran the electric Hound.

  HE STOPPED NOW AND AGAIN, across town, to watch through the dimly lighted windows of wakened houses. He peered in at silhouettes of people before television screens, and there on the screens saw where the Electric Hound was, now at Elm Terrace, now at Lincoln Avenue, now at 34th Avenue, now up the alley toward Mr. Faber’s, now at Faber’s!

  Montag held his breath.

  Now passing on! Leaving Faber’s behind. For a moment the TV camera scanned Faber’s. The house was dark. In the garden, the water was sprinkling in the cool air, softly.

  The Electric hound jumped ahead, down the alley.

  “Sleep tight, professor.” And Montag was gone, again, racing toward the distant river.

  As he ran, he put the Thimble in his ear and a voice ran with him every step of the way with the beat of his heart and the sound of his shoes on the gravel: “Look for the pedestrian, look for the pedestrian, citizens, look for the pedestrian. Any one on the sidewalks or in the street, walking or running, is suspect, look for the pedestrian!” How simple, of course, in a city where no one walked. Look, look for the Walking Man, the man who proves his legs. Thank god for good dark alleys where men can walk or run in peace. House lights flashed on all about, porch lights. Montag saw faces peering streetward as he passed behind them, faces hid by curtains, pale, night-frightened faces like animals peering from electric caves, faces with grey eyes and grey souls, and then he hurried on, panting, leaving them to their tasks, and in another minute was at the black, moving river.

  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.