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"
Well
,
"
said
Beatty
,
"
take
the
night
off
!
"
He
examined
his
eternal
matchbox
,
the
lid
of
which
said
GUARANTEED
:
ONE
MILLION
LIGHTS
IN
THIS
IGNITER
,
and
began
to
strike
the
chemical
match
abstractedly
,
blow
out
,
strike
,
blow
out
,
strike
,
speak
a
few
words
,
blow
out
.
He
looked
at
the
flame
.
He
blew
,
he
looked
at
the
smoke
.
"
When
will
you
be
well
?
"
"
Tomorrow
.
The
next
day
maybe
.
First
of
the
week
.
"
Beatty
puffed
his
pipe
.
"
Every
fireman
,
sooner
or
later
,
hits
this
.
They
only
need
understanding
,
to
know
how
the
wheels
run
.
Need
to
know
the
history
of
our
profession
.
They
do
n't
feed
it
to
rookies
like
they
used
to
.
Damn
shame
.
"
Puff
.
"
Only
fire
chiefs
remember
it
now
.
"
Puff
.
"
I
'll
let
you
in
on
it
.
"
Mildred
fidgeted
.
Beatty
took
a
full
minute
to
settle
himself
in
and
think
back
for
what
he
wanted
to
say
.
"
When
did
it
all
start
,
you
ask
,
this
job
of
ours
,
how
did
it
come
about
,
where
,
when
?
Well
,
I
'd
say
it
really
got
started
around
about
a
thing
called
the
Civil
War
.
Even
though
our
rule-book
claims
it
was
founded
earlier
.
The
fact
is
we
did
n't
get
along
well
until
photography
came
into
its
own
.
Then
--
motion
pictures
in
the
early
twentieth
century
.
Radio
.
Television
.
Things
began
to
have
mass
.
"
Montag
sat
in
bed
,
not
moving
.
"
And
because
they
had
mass
,
they
became
simpler
,
"
said
Beatty
.
"
Once
,
books
appealed
to
a
few
people
,
here
,
there
,
everywhere
.
They
could
afford
to
be
different
.
The
world
was
roomy
.
But
then
the
world
got
full
of
eyes
and
elbows
and
mouths
.
Double
,
triple
,
quadruple
population
.
Films
and
radios
,
magazines
,
books
levelled
down
to
a
sort
of
paste
pudding
norm
,
do
you
follow
me
?
"
"
I
think
so
.
"
Beatty
peered
at
the
smoke
pattern
he
had
put
out
on
the
air
.
"
Picture
it
.
Nineteenth-century
man
with
his
horses
,
dogs
,
carts
,
slow
motion
.
Then
,
in
the
twentieth
century
,
speed
up
your
camera
.
Books
cut
shorter
.
Condensations
.
Digests
.
Tabloids
.
Everything
boils
down
to
the
gag
,
the
snap
ending
.
"