Read Online The Fireman by Ray Bradbury - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ray Bradbury
Tags: Science-Fiction
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more than plenty of time for a police car to appear, see him, and run him down.
He listened to his own loud footsteps.
A car was coming. Its headlights leaped and caught Montag in full stride.
"Keep going."
Montag faltered, got a new hold on his books, and forced himself not to freeze. Nor should he draw suspicion to himself by running. He was now one-third of the way across. There was a growl from the car's motor as it put on speed.
THE police, thought Montag. They see me, of course. But walk slowly, quietly, don't turn, don't look, don't seem concerned. Walk, that's it, walk, walk.
The car was rushing at a terrific speed. A good one hundred miles an hour. Its horn blared. Its light flushed the concrete. The heat of the lights, it seemed, burned Montag's cheeks and eyelids and brought the sweat coursing from his body.
He began to shuffle idiotically, then broke and ran. The horn hooted. The motor sound whined higher. Montag sprinted. He dropped a book, whirled, hesitated, left it there, plunged on, yelling to himself, in the middle of concrete emptiness, the car a hundred feet away, closer, closer, hooting, pushing, rolling, screeching, the horn hunting, himself running, his legs up, down, out, back, his eyes blind in the flashing glare, the horn nearer, now on top of him!
They'll run me down, they know who I am, it's all over, thought Montag, it's done!
He stumbled and fell. An instant before reaching him, the wild car swerved around him and was gone. Falling had saved him.
Mr. Montag lay flat, his head down. Wisps of laughter trailed back with the blue car exhaust.
That wasn't the police, thought Mr. Montag.
It was a carful of high-school children, yelling, whistling, hurrahing. And they had seen a man, a pedestrian, a rarity, and they had yelled "Let's get him!" They didn't know he was the fugitive Mr. Montag; they were simply out for a night of roaring five hundred miles in a few moonlit hours, their faces icy with wind.
"They would have killed me," whispered Montag to the shaking concrete under his bruised cheek. "For no reason at all in the world, they would have killed me."
He got up and walked unsteadily to the far curb. Somehow, he had remembered to pick up the spilled books. He shuffled them, oddly, in his numb hands.
"I wonder if they were the ones who killed Clarisse."
His eyes watered.
The thing that had saved him was falling flat. The driver of that car, seeing Montag prone, considered the possibility that running over a body at one hundred miles an hour might turn the car over and spill them all out. Now, if Montag had remained upright, things would have been far different...
Montag gasped. Far down the empty avenue, four blocks away, the car of laughing children had turned. Now it was racing back, picking up speed.
Montag dodged into an alley and was gone in the shadow long before the car returned.
THE house was silent. Mr. Montag approached it from the back, creeping through the scent of daffodils and roses and wet grass. He touched the screen door, found it open, slipped in, tiptoed across the porch, and, behind the refrigerator in the kitchen, deposited three of the books. He waited, listening to the house.
"Mrs. Black, are you asleep up there?" he asked of the second floor in a whisper. "I hate to do this to you, but your husband did just as bad to others, never asking, never wondering, never worrying. You're a fireman's wife, Mrs. Black, and now it's your house, and you will be in jail a while, for all the houses your husband has burned and people he's 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, and came to an all-night, dimly lighted phone booth. He closed himself in the booth and dialed a number.
"I want to report an illegal
He listened to his own loud footsteps.
A car was coming. Its headlights leaped and caught Montag in full stride.
"Keep going."
Montag faltered, got a new hold on his books, and forced himself not to freeze. Nor should he draw suspicion to himself by running. He was now one-third of the way across. There was a growl from the car's motor as it put on speed.
THE police, thought Montag. They see me, of course. But walk slowly, quietly, don't turn, don't look, don't seem concerned. Walk, that's it, walk, walk.
The car was rushing at a terrific speed. A good one hundred miles an hour. Its horn blared. Its light flushed the concrete. The heat of the lights, it seemed, burned Montag's cheeks and eyelids and brought the sweat coursing from his body.
He began to shuffle idiotically, then broke and ran. The horn hooted. The motor sound whined higher. Montag sprinted. He dropped a book, whirled, hesitated, left it there, plunged on, yelling to himself, in the middle of concrete emptiness, the car a hundred feet away, closer, closer, hooting, pushing, rolling, screeching, the horn hunting, himself running, his legs up, down, out, back, his eyes blind in the flashing glare, the horn nearer, now on top of him!
They'll run me down, they know who I am, it's all over, thought Montag, it's done!
He stumbled and fell. An instant before reaching him, the wild car swerved around him and was gone. Falling had saved him.
Mr. Montag lay flat, his head down. Wisps of laughter trailed back with the blue car exhaust.
That wasn't the police, thought Mr. Montag.
It was a carful of high-school children, yelling, whistling, hurrahing. And they had seen a man, a pedestrian, a rarity, and they had yelled "Let's get him!" They didn't know he was the fugitive Mr. Montag; they were simply out for a night of roaring five hundred miles in a few moonlit hours, their faces icy with wind.
"They would have killed me," whispered Montag to the shaking concrete under his bruised cheek. "For no reason at all in the world, they would have killed me."
He got up and walked unsteadily to the far curb. Somehow, he had remembered to pick up the spilled books. He shuffled them, oddly, in his numb hands.
"I wonder if they were the ones who killed Clarisse."
His eyes watered.
The thing that had saved him was falling flat. The driver of that car, seeing Montag prone, considered the possibility that running over a body at one hundred miles an hour might turn the car over and spill them all out. Now, if Montag had remained upright, things would have been far different...
Montag gasped. Far down the empty avenue, four blocks away, the car of laughing children had turned. Now it was racing back, picking up speed.
Montag dodged into an alley and was gone in the shadow long before the car returned.
THE house was silent. Mr. Montag approached it from the back, creeping through the scent of daffodils and roses and wet grass. He touched the screen door, found it open, slipped in, tiptoed across the porch, and, behind the refrigerator in the kitchen, deposited three of the books. He waited, listening to the house.
"Mrs. Black, are you asleep up there?" he asked of the second floor in a whisper. "I hate to do this to you, but your husband did just as bad to others, never asking, never wondering, never worrying. You're a fireman's wife, Mrs. Black, and now it's your house, and you will be in jail a while, for all the houses your husband has burned and people he's 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, and came to an all-night, dimly lighted phone booth. He closed himself in the booth and dialed a number.
"I want to report an illegal
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