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It
was
up
to
120
m.
p.
h
.
It
was
up
to
130
at
least
.
Montag
clamped
his
jaws
.
The
heat
of
the
racing
headlights
burnt
his
cheeks
,
it
seemed
,
and
jittered
his
eye-lids
and
flushed
the
sour
sweat
out
all
over
his
body
.
He
began
to
shuffle
idiotically
and
talk
to
himself
and
then
he
broke
and
just
ran
.
He
put
out
his
legs
as
far
as
they
would
go
and
down
and
then
far
out
again
and
down
and
back
and
out
and
down
and
back
.
God
!
God
!
He
dropped
a
book
,
broke
pace
,
almost
turned
,
changed
his
mind
,
plunged
on
,
yelling
in
concrete
emptiness
,
the
beetle
scuttling
after
its
running
food
,
two
hundred
,
one
hundred
feet
away
,
ninety
,
eighty
,
seventy
,
Montag
gasping
,
flailing
his
hands
,
legs
up
down
out
,
up
down
out
,
closer
,
closer
,
hooting
,
calling
,
his
eyes
burnt
white
now
as
his
head
jerked
about
to
confront
the
flashing
glare
,
now
the
beetle
was
swallowed
in
its
own
light
,
now
it
was
nothing
but
a
torch
hurtling
upon
him
;
all
sound
,
all
blare
.
Now-almost
on
top
of
him
!
He
stumbled
and
fell
.
I
'm
done
!
It
's
over
!
But
the
falling
made
a
difference
.
An
instant
before
reaching
him
the
wild
beetle
cut
and
swerved
out
.
It
was
gone
.
Montag
lay
flat
,
his
head
down
.
Wisps
of
laughter
trailed
back
to
him
with
the
blue
exhaust
from
the
beetle
.
His
right
hand
was
extended
above
him
,
flat
.
Across
the
extreme
tip
of
his
middle
finger
,
he
saw
now
as
he
lifted
that
hand
,
a
faint
sixteenth
of
an
inch
of
black
tread
where
tyre
had
touched
in
passing
.
He
looked
at
that
black
line
with
disbelief
,
getting
to
his
feet
.
That
was
n't
the
police
,
he
thought
.
He
looked
down
the
boulevard
.
It
was
clear
now
.
A
carful
of
children
,
all
ages
,
God
knew
,
from
twelve
to
sixteen
,
out
whistling
,
yelling
,
hurrahing
,
had
seen
a
man
,
a
very
extraordinary
sight
,
a
man
strolling
,
a
rarity
,
and
simply
said
,
"
Let
's
get
him
,
"
not
knowing
he
was
the
fugitive
Mr.
Montag
,
simply
a
number
of
children
out
for
a
long
night
of
roaring
five
or
six
hundred
miles
in
a
few
moonlit
hours
,
their
faces
icy
with
wind
,
and
coming
home
or
not
coming
at
dawn
,
alive
or
not
alive
,
that
made
the
adventure
.
They
would
have
killed
me
,
thought
Montag
,
swaying
,
the
air
still
torn
and
stirring
about
him
in
dust
,
touching
his
bruised
cheek
.
For
no
reason
at
all
in
the
world
they
would
have
killed
me
.
He
walked
toward
the
far
kerb
telling
each
foot
to
go
and
keep
going
.
Somehow
he
had
picked
up
the
spilled
books
;
he
did
n't
remember
bending
or
touching
them
.
He
kept
moving
them
from
hand
to
hand
as
if
they
were
a
poker
hand
he
could
not
figure
.
