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Beatty
grinned
his
most
charming
grin
.
"
Well
,
that
's
one
way
to
get
an
audience
.
Hold
a
gun
on
a
man
and
force
him
to
listen
to
your
speech
.
Speech
away
.
What
'll
it
be
this
time
?
Why
do
n't
you
belch
Shakespeare
at
me
,
you
fumbling
snob
?
'
There
is
no
terror
,
Cassius
,
in
your
threats
,
for
I
am
arm
'd
so
strong
in
honesty
that
they
pass
by
me
as
an
idle
wind
,
which
I
respect
not
!
'
How
's
that
?
Go
ahead
now
,
you
second-hand
litterateur
,
pull
the
trigger
.
"
He
took
one
step
toward
Montag
.
Montag
only
said
,
"
We
never
burned
right
...
"
"
Hand
it
over
,
Guy
,
"
said
Beatty
with
a
fixed
smile
.
And
then
he
was
a
shrieking
blaze
,
a
jumping
,
sprawling
,
gibbering
mannikin
,
no
longer
human
or
known
,
all
writhing
flame
on
the
lawn
as
Montag
shot
one
continuous
pulse
of
liquid
fire
on
him
.
There
was
a
hiss
like
a
great
mouthful
of
spittle
banging
a
redhot
stove
,
a
bubbling
and
frothing
as
if
salt
had
been
poured
over
a
monstrous
black
snail
to
cause
a
terrible
liquefaction
and
a
boiling
over
of
yellow
foam
.
Montag
shut
his
eyes
,
shouted
,
shouted
,
and
fought
to
get
his
hands
at
his
ears
to
clamp
and
to
cut
away
the
sound
.
Beatty
flopped
over
and
over
and
over
,
and
at
last
twisted
in
on
himself
like
a
charred
wax
doll
and
lay
silent
.
The
other
two
firemen
did
not
move
.
Montag
kept
his
sickness
down
long
enough
to
aim
the
flame-thrower
.
"
Turn
around
!
"
They
turned
,
their
faces
like
blanched
meat
,
streaming
sweat
;
he
beat
their
heads
,
knocking
off
their
helmets
and
bringing
them
down
on
themselves
.
They
fell
and
lay
without
moving
.
The
blowing
of
a
single
autumn
leaf
.
He
turned
and
the
Mechanical
Hound
was
there
.
It
was
half
across
the
lawn
,
coming
from
the
shadows
,
moving
with
such
drifting
ease
that
it
was
like
a
single
solid
cloud
of
black-grey
smoke
blown
at
him
in
silence
.
