The Fireman

by Ray Bradbury

  "I was delayed." Montag patted his inside pocket. "The money's here." He took it out and laid it on the desk, then sat tiredly sipping his drink. "How do you feel?"

  "This is the first night in many years I've fallen right to sleep," said Faber. "That must mean I'm doing the right thing. I think we can trust me now. Once, I didn't think so."

  "People never trust themselves, but they never let others know. I suppose that's why we do rash things, expose ourselves in positions from which we don't dare retreat. Unconsciously, we fear we might give in, quit the fight, and so we do a foolish thing, like reading poetry to women." Montag laughed at himself. "So I guess I'm on the run. It'll be up to you to keep things moving."

  "I'll do my damnedest." Faber sat down. "Tell me about it. What you did just now, I mean."

  "I hid my remaining books in four firemen's homes. Then I telephoned an alarm. I figured I might be dead by morning, and I wanted to have done something before then."

  "God, I'd like to've been there."

  "Yes, the places burned very well."

  "Where are you going now?"

  "I don't know."

  "Try the factory section, follow the old rail lines, look up some of the hobo camps. I didn't tell you this before — maybe I didn't quite trust you yet, I don't know — but they were in touch with me last year, wanting me to go underground with them."

  "With tramps?"

  "There are a lot of Harvard degrees on the tracks between here and Los Angeles. What else can they do? Most of them are wanted and hunted in cities. They survive. I don't think they have a plan for a revolution, though; I never heard them speak of it. They simply sit by their fires. Not a very lively group. But they might hide you now."

  "I'll try. I'm heading for the river, I think, then the old factory district. I'll keep in touch with you.'

  "In Boston, then. I'm leaving on the three o'clock train tonight — or, rather, this morning. That's not long from now. There's a retired printer in Boston that I want to see with this money."

  "I'll contact you there," said Montag. "And get books from you when I need them, to plant in firemen's houses across the country."

  MONTAG drained his drink. "Do you want to sleep here a while?" Faber asked.

  "I'd better get going. I wouldn't want you held responsible."

  "Let's check." Faber switched on the televisor. A voice was talking swiftly:

  " — this evening. Montag has escaped, but we expect his arrest in 24 hours. Here's a bulletin. The Electric Dog is being transported here from Green Town — "

  Montag and Faber glanced at each other.

  " — You may recall the interviews recently on t-v concerning this incredible new invention, a machine so delicate in sense perception that it can follow trails much as bloodhounds did for centuries. But this machine, without fail, always finds its quarry!"

  Montag put his empty glass down and he was cold.

  "The machine is self-operating, weighs only forty pounds, is propelled on seven rubber wheels. The front is a nose, which in reality is a thousand noses, so sensitive that they can distinguish 10,000 food combinations, 5,000 flower smells, and remember identity index odors of 15,000 men without the bother of 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 stared together at the invisible trail of his footprints leading to this house, the odor of his hand on the brass doorknobs, the smell of his body in the air and on this chair.

  "The Electric Hound is now landing, by helicopter, at the burned Montag home. We take you there by t-v control!"

  So they must have a game, thought Montag. In the midst of a time of war, they must play the game out.

  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 and menacing flower.

  Montag watched the scene with a solid fascination, not wanting to move, ever. If he wished, he could linger here, in comfort, and follow the entire hunt on through its quick phases, down alleys, up streets, across empty running avenues, with the sky finally lightening with dawn, up other alleys to burned houses, and so on to this place here, this house, with Faber and himself seated at their leisure, smoking idly, drinking good wine, while the Electric Hound sniffed down the fatal paths, whirring and pausing with finality right outside that door there.

  Then, if he wished, Montag could rise, walk to the door, keep one eye on the t-v screen, open the door, look out, look back, and see himself, dramatized, described, made over, standing there, limned in the bright television screen, from outside, a drama to be watched objectively, and he would catch himself, an instant before oblivion, being killed for the benefit of a million televiewers who had been wakened from their sleeps a few minutes ago by the frantic beep-beeping of their receivers to watch the big game, the big hunt, the Scoop!

  "There it is," whispered Faber, hoarsely.

  OUT of the helicopter glided something that was not a machine, not an animal, not dead, not alive, just gliding. It glowed with a green phosphorescence, and it was on a long leash. Behind it came a man, dressed lightly, with earphones on his shaven head.

  "I can't stay here." Montag leaped up, his eyes still fixed to the scene. The Electric Hound shot forward to the smoking ruins, the man running after it. A coat was brought forward. Montag recognized it as his own, dropped in the yard during flight. The Electric Hound studied it for only a moment. There was a whirring and clicking of dials and meters.

  "You can't escape." Faber mourned over it, turning away. "I've heard about that damned monster. No one has ever escaped."

  "I'll try, anyway. I'm sorry about this, Professor."

  "About me? About my house? Don't be. I'm the one to be sorry I didn't act years ago. Whatever I get out of this, I deserve. You run, now; perhaps I can delay them here somehow — "

  "Wait a minute." Montag moved forward. "There's no use your being discovered. We can erase the trail here. First the chair. Get me a knife."

  Faber ran and fetched a knife. With it, Montag attacked the chair where he had sat. He cut the upholstery free, then shoved it, bit by bit, without touching the lid, 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, air the house. Rub the doorknobs with alcohol. After I go, turn your garden sprinkler on full. That'll wash away the side-walk traces."

  Faber shook his hand vigorously. "You don't know what this means. I'll do anything to help you in the future. Get in touch with me in Boston, then."

  "One more thing. A suitcase, Get it, fill it with your dirty laundry, an old suit, the dirtier the better, denim pants maybe, a shirt, some old sneakers and socks."

  Faber was gone and back in a minute. Montag sealed the full suitcase with scotch tape. "To keep the odor in," he said, breathlessly. He poured a liberal amount of cognac over the exterior of the case. "I don't want that Hound picking up two odors at once. Mind if I take this bottle of whisky? I'll need it later. When I get to the river, I'll change clothes."

  "And identities; from Montag to Faber."

  "Christ, I hope it works! If your clothes smell strong enough, which God knows they seem to, we might confuse the Hound, anyway."

  "Good luck."

  They shook hands again and glanced at the t-v. The Electric Hound was on its way, followed by mobile camera units, through alleys, across empty morning streets, silently, silently, sniffing the great night wind for Mr. Leonard Montag.

  "Be seeing you!"

  And Montag was out the door, running lightly, with the half empty case. Behind him, he saw and felt and heard the garden sprinkler system jump up, filling the dark air with synthetic rain to wash away the smell of Montag. Through the back window, the last thing he saw of Faber was the older man ripping up the carpet and cramming it in the wall incinerator.

  Montag ran.

&
nbsp; Behind him, in the night city, the Electric Hound followed.

  HE STOPPED now and again, panting, across town, to watch through the dimly lighted windows of wakened houses. He peered in at silhouettes 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, now up the alley toward Mr. Faber's, now at Faber's!

  "No, no!" thought Montag. "Go on past! Don't turn in, don't!"

  He held his breath.

  The Electric Hound hesitated, then plunged on, leaving Faber's house behind. For a moment the t-v camera scanned Faber's home.

  The windows were dark. In the garden, the water sprinkled the cool air, softly.

  THE Electric Hound raced ahead, down the alley.

  "Good going, Professor." And Montag was gone, again, racing toward the distant river, stopping at other houses to see the game on the t-v sets, the long running game, and the Hound drawing near behind. "Only a mile away now!"

  As he ran he had the Seashell at his ear and a voice ran with every step, with the beat of his heart and the sound of his shoes on gravel. "Watch for the pedestrian! Look for the pedestrian! Anyone on the side-walks or in the street, walking or running, is suspect! Watch for the pedestrian!"

  How simple 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 could run in peace. House lights flashed on all about.

  Montag saw faces peering street-ward as he passed behind them, faces hid by curtains, pale, night-frightened faces, like odd animals peering from electric caves, faces with gray eyes and gray minds, and he plunged ahead, leaving them to their tasks, and in another minute was at the black, moving river.

  He found what he was looking for after five minutes of running along the bank. It was a row-boat drawn and staked to the sand. He took possession.

  The boat slid easily on the long silence of river and went away downstream from the city, bobbing and whispering, while Montag stripped in darkness down to the skin, and splashed his body, his arms, his legs, his face with raw liquor. Then he changed into Faber's old clothing and shoes. He tossed his own clothing into the river with the suitcase.

  He sat watching the dark shore. There would be a delay while the pursuit rode the Electric Hound up and down stream 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 the alcohol, was something else again. He pulled out a handkerchief he had saved over, doused it with the remainder of the liquor. He must hold this over his mouth when stepping ashore.

  The particles of his breathing might remain in an electronically detectable invisible cloud for hours after he had passed on.

  He couldn't wait any longer. He was below the town now, in a lonely place of weeds and old railway tracks. He rowed the boat toward shore, tied the handkerchief over his face, and leaped out as the boat touched briefly.

  The current swept the boat away, turning slowly.

  "Farewell to Mr. Montag," he said. "Hello, Mr. Faber." He went into the woods.

  HE FOUND his way along rail-road tracks that had not been used in years, crusted with brown rust and overgrown with weeds. He listened to his feet moving in the long grass. He paused now and then, checking behind to see if he was followed, but was not.

  Firelight shone far ahead. "One of the camps," thought Montag. "One of the places where the hobo intellectuals cook their meals and talk!" It was unbelievable.

  Half an hour later he came out of the weeds and the forest into the half light of the fire, for only a moment, then he hid back and waited, watching the group of seven men, holding their hands to the small blaze, murmuring. To their right, a quarter mile away, was the river. Up the stream a mile, and still apparent in the dark, was the city, and no sound except the voices and the fire crackling.

  Montag waited ten minutes in the shadows. Finally a voice called: "All right, you can come out now."

  He shrank back.

  "It's okay," said the voice. "You're welcome here."

  He let himself stand forth and then he walked tiredly toward the fire, peering at the men and their dirty clothing.

  "We're not very elegant," said the man who seemed to be the leader of the little group. "Sit down. Have some coffee."

  He watched the dark steaming mixture poured into a collapsible cup which was handed him straight off. He sipped it gingerly. He felt the scald on his lips. The men were watching him. Their faces were unshaved but their beards were much too neat, and their, hands were clean. They had stood up, as if to welcome a guest, and now they sat down again. Montag sipped. "Thanks," he said.

  The leader said, "My name is Granger, as good a name as any. You don't have to tell us your name at all." He remembered something. "Here, before you finish the coffee, better take this." He held out a small bottle of colorless fluid.

  "What is it?"

  "Drink it. Whoever you are, you wouldn't be here unless you were in trouble. Either that, or you're a Government spy, in which case we are only a bunch of men traveling nowhere and hurting no one. In any event, whoever you are, an hour after you've drunk this fluid, you'll be someone else. It does something to the perspiratory system — changes the sweat content. If you want to stay here you'll have to drink it, otherwise you'll have to move on. If there's a Hound after you, you'd be bad company."

  "I think I took care of the Hound," said Montag, and drank the tasteless stuff. The fluid stung his throat. He was sick for a moment; there was a blackness in his eyes, and a roaring in his head. Then it passed.

  "THAT'S better, Mr. Montag," said Granger, and snorted at his social error. "I beg your pardon —" He poked his thumb at a small portable t-v beyond the fire. "We've been watching. They videoed a picture of you, not a very good resemblance. We hoped you'd head this way."

  "It's been quite a chase."

  "Yes." Granger snapped the t-v on. It was no bigger than a handbag, weighing some seven pounds, mostly screen. A voice from the set cried:

  "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 Granger. "They're faking. You threw them off at the river, but they can't admit it. Must be a million people watching that bunch of scoundrels hound after you. They'll catch you in five minutes."

  "But if they're ten miles away, how can they...?"

  "Watch."

  He made the t-v picture brighter.

  "Up that street there, somewhere, right now, out for an early morning walk. A rarity, an odd one. Don't think the police don't know the habits of queer ducks like that, men who walk early in the morning just for the hell of it. Anyway, up that street the police know that every morning a certain man walks alone, for the air, to smoke. Call him Billings or Brown or Baumgartner, but the search is getting nearer to him every minute. See?"

  In the video screen, a man turned a corner. The Electric Hound rushed forward, screeching. The police converged upon the man.

  The t-v voice cried, "There's Montag now! The search is over!"

  The innocent man stood watching the crowd come on. In his hand was a cigaret, half smoked. He looked at the Hound and his jaw dropped and he started to say something when a god-like voice boomed, "All right, Montag, don't move! We've got you, Montag!"

  By the small fire, with seven other men, Mr. Montag sat, ten miles removed, the light of the video screen on his face.

  "Don't run, Montag!"

  The man turned, bewildered. The crowd roared. The Hound leaped up.

  "The poor son of a bitch," said Granger, bitterly.

  A dozen shots rattled out. The man crumpled.

  "Montag is dead, the search is over, a criminal is given his due," said the announcer.

  The camera trucked forward. Just before it showed the dead man's face, however, the screen went black.

  "We now switch you to the Sky Room of the Hotel Lux
in San Francisco for a half hour of dawn dance music by — "

  GRANGER turned it off. "They didn't show the man's face, naturally. Better if everyone thinks it's Montag."

  Montag said nothing, but simply looked at the blank screen. He could not move or speak.

  Granger put out his hand. "Welcome back from the dead, Mr. Montag." Montag took the hand, numbly. The man said, "My real name is Clement, 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."