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."
"I don't belong here," said Montag, at last, slowly. "I've been an idiot, all the way down the line, bungled and messed and tripped myself up."
"Anger makes idiots of us all, I'm afraid. You can only be angry so long, then you explode and do the wrong things. It can't be helped now."
"I shouldn't have come here. It might endanger you."
"We're used to that. We all make mistakes, or we wouldn't be here ourselves. When we were separate individuals, all we had was rage. I struck a fireman in the face, once. He'd come to burn my library back about forty years ago. I had to run. I've been running ever since. And Simmons here..."
"I quoted Donne in the midst of a genetics class one afternoon. For no reason at all. Just started quoting Donne. You see? Fools, all of us."
They glanced at the fire, self-consciously.
"So you want to join us, Mr. Montag?"
"Yes."
"What have you to offer?"
"Nothing. I thought I had the Book of Job, but I haven't even got that now."
"The Book of Job would do very well. Where was it?"
"Here." Montag touched his head.
"Ah," said Granger-Clement. He smiled and nodded.
"What's wrong? Isn't that all right?" said Montag.
"Better than all right — perfect! Mr. Montag, you have hit upon the secret of, if you want to give it a term, our organization. Living books, Mr. Montag, living books. Inside the old skull where no one can see." He turned to Simmons. "Do we have a Book of Job?"
"Only one. A man named
"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."
"I don't belong here," said Montag, at last, slowly. "I've been an idiot, all the way down the line, bungled and messed and tripped myself up."
"Anger makes idiots of us all, I'm afraid. You can only be angry so long, then you explode and do the wrong things. It can't be helped now."
"I shouldn't have come here. It might endanger you."
"We're used to that. We all make mistakes, or we wouldn't be here ourselves. When we were separate individuals, all we had was rage. I struck a fireman in the face, once. He'd come to burn my library back about forty years ago. I had to run. I've been running ever since. And Simmons here..."
"I quoted Donne in the midst of a genetics class one afternoon. For no reason at all. Just started quoting Donne. You see? Fools, all of us."
They glanced at the fire, self-consciously.
"So you want to join us, Mr. Montag?"
"Yes."
"What have you to offer?"
"Nothing. I thought I had the Book of Job, but I haven't even got that now."
"The Book of Job would do very well. Where was it?"
"Here." Montag touched his head.
"Ah," said Granger-Clement. He smiled and nodded.
"What's wrong? Isn't that all right?" said Montag.
"Better than all right — perfect! Mr. Montag, you have hit upon the secret of, if you want to give it a term, our organization. Living books, Mr. Montag, living books. Inside the old skull where no one can see." He turned to Simmons. "Do we have a Book of Job?"
"Only one. A man named
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