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Now
he
must
be
clean
and
presentable
if
he
wished
,
to
walk
,
not
run
,
stroll
calmly
across
that
wide
boulevard
.
It
would
give
him
an
extra
margin
of
safety
if
he
washed
up
and
combed
his
hair
before
he
went
on
his
way
to
get
where
...
?
Yes
,
he
thought
,
where
am
I
running
?
Nowhere
.
There
was
nowhere
to
go
,
no
friend
to
turn
to
,
really
.
Except
Faber
.
And
then
he
realized
that
he
was
indeed
,
running
toward
Faber
's
house
,
instinctively
.
But
Faber
could
n't
hide
him
;
it
would
be
suicide
even
to
try
.
But
he
knew
that
he
would
go
to
see
Faber
anyway
,
for
a
few
short
minutes
.
Faber
's
would
be
the
place
where
he
might
refuel
his
fast
draining
belief
in
his
own
ability
to
survive
.
He
just
wanted
to
know
that
there
was
a
man
like
Faber
in
the
world
.
He
wanted
to
see
the
man
alive
and
not
burned
back
there
like
a
body
shelled
in
another
body
.
And
some
of
the
money
must
be
left
with
Faber
,
of
course
,
to
be
spent
after
Montag
ran
on
his
way
.
Perhaps
he
could
make
the
open
country
and
live
on
or
near
the
rivers
and
near
the
highways
,
in
the
fields
and
hills
.
A
great
whirling
whisper
made
him
look
to
the
sky
.
The
police
helicopters
were
rising
so
far
away
that
it
seemed
someone
had
blown
the
grey
head
off
a
dry
dandelion
flower
.
Two
dozen
of
them
flurried
,
wavering
,
indecisive
,
three
miles
off
,
like
butterflies
puzzled
by
autumn
,
and
then
they
were
plummeting
down
to
land
,
one
by
one
,
here
,
there
,
softly
kneading
the
streets
where
,
turned
back
to
beetles
,
they
shrieked
along
the
boulevards
or
,
as
suddenly
,
leapt
back
into
the
sir
,
continuing
their
search
.
And
here
was
the
gas
station
,
its
attendants
busy
now
with
customers
.
Approaching
from
the
rear
,
Montag
entered
the
men
's
washroom
.
Through
the
aluminium
wall
he
heard
a
radio
voice
saying
,
"
War
has
been
declared
.
"
The
gas
was
being
pumped
outside
.
The
men
in
the
beetles
were
talking
and
the
attendants
were
talking
about
the
engines
,
the
gas
,
the
money
owed
.
Montag
stood
trying
to
make
himself
feel
the
shock
of
the
quiet
statement
from
the
radio
,
but
nothing
would
happen
.
The
war
would
have
to
wait
for
him
to
come
to
it
in
his
personal
file
,
an
hour
,
two
hours
from
now
.
He
washed
his
hands
and
face
and
towelled
himself
dry
,
making
little
sound
.
He
came
out
of
the
washroom
and
shut
the
door
carefully
and
walked
into
the
darkness
and
at
last
stood
again
on
the
edge
of
the
empty
boulevard
.
There
it
lay
,
a
game
for
him
to
win
,
a
vast
bowling
alley
in
the
cool
morning
.
The
boulevard
was
as
clean
as
the
surface
of
an
arena
two
minutes
before
the
appearance
of
certain
unnamed
victims
and
certain
unknown
killers
.
The
air
over
and
above
the
vast
concrete
river
trembled
with
the
warmth
of
Montag
's
body
alone
;
it
was
incredible
how
he
felt
his
temperature
could
cause
the
whole
immediate
world
to
vibrate
.
He
was
a
phosphorescent
target
;
he
knew
it
,
he
felt
it
.
And
now
he
must
begin
his
little
walk
.
Three
blocks
away
a
few
headlights
glared
.
Montag
drew
a
deep
breath
.
His
lungs
were
like
burning
brooms
in
his
chest
.
His
mouth
was
sucked
dry
from
running
.
His
throat
tasted
of
bloody
iron
and
there
was
rusted
steel
in
his
feet
.
