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He
was
certain
if
he
tried
the
same
route
,
everything
would
work
out
fine
.
But
it
was
late
,
and
the
arrival
of
his
train
put
a
stop
to
his
plan
.
The
flutter
of
cards
,
motion
of
hands
,
of
eyelids
,
the
drone
of
the
time-voice
in
the
firehouse
ceiling
"
...
one
thirty-five
.
Thursday
morning
,
November
4th
...
one
thirty-six
...
one
thirty-seven
a.
m.
.
.
?
The
tick
of
the
playing-cards
on
the
greasy
table-top
,
all
the
sounds
came
to
Montag
,
behind
his
closed
eyes
,
behind
the
barrier
he
had
momentarily
erected
.
He
could
feel
the
firehouse
full
of
glitter
and
shine
and
silence
,
of
brass
colours
,
the
colours
of
coins
,
of
gold
,
of
silver
:
The
unseen
men
across
the
table
were
sighing
on
their
cards
,
waiting
.
"
...
one
forty-five
...
"
The
voice-clock
mourned
out
the
cold
hour
of
a
cold
morning
of
a
still
colder
year
.
"
What
's
wrong
,
Montag
?
"
Montag
opened
his
eyes
.
A
radio
hummed
somewhere
.
"
...
war
may
be
declared
any
hour
.
This
country
stands
ready
to
defend
its
--
"
The
firehouse
trembled
as
a
great
flight
of
jet
planes
whistled
a
single
note
across
the
black
morning
sky
.
Montag
blinked
.
Beatty
was
looking
at
him
as
if
he
were
a
museum
statue
.
At
any
moment
,
Beatty
might
rise
and
walk
about
him
,
touching
,
exploring
his
guilt
and
self-consciousness
.
Guilt
?
What
guilt
was
that
?
"
Your
play
,
Montag
.
"
Montag
looked
at
these
men
whose
faces
were
sunburnt
by
a
thousand
real
and
ten
thousand
imaginary
fires
,
whose
work
flushed
their
cheeks
and
fevered
their
eyes
.
These
men
who
looked
steadily
into
their
platinum
igniter
flames
as
they
lit
their
eternally
burning
black
pipes
.
They
and
their
charcoal
hair
and
soot-coloured
brows
and
bluish-ash-smeared
cheeks
where
they
had
shaven
close
;
but
their
heritage
showed
.
Montag
started
up
,
his
mouth
opened
.
Had
he
ever
seen
a
fireman
that
did
n't
have
black
hair
,
black
brows
,
a
fiery
face
,
and
a
blue-steel
shaved
but
unshaved
look
?
These
men
were
all
mirror-images
of
himself
!
Were
all
firemen
picked
then
for
their
looks
as
well
as
their
proclivities
?
The
colour
of
cinders
and
ash
about
them
,
and
the
continual
smell
of
burning
from
their
pipes
.
Captain
Beatty
there
,
rising
in
thunderheads
of
tobacco
smoke
.
Beatty
opening
a
fresh
tobacco
packet
,
crumpling
the
cellophane
into
a
sound
of
fire
.
