After I go, turn your garden sprinkler on full. That'll wash away the side-walk traces."
Faber shook his hand vigorously. "You don't know what this means. I'll do anything to help you in the future. Get in touch with me in Boston, then."
"One more thing. A suitcase, Get it, fill it with your dirty laundry, an old suit, the dirtier the better, denim pants maybe, a shirt, some old sneakers and socks."
Faber was gone and back in a minute. Montag sealed the full suitcase with scotch tape. "To keep the odor in," he said, breathlessly. He poured a liberal amount of cognac over the exterior of the case. "I don't want that Hound picking up two odors at once. Mind if I take this bottle of whisky? I'll need it later. When I get to the river, I'll change clothes."
"And identities; from Montag to Faber."
"Christ, I hope it works! If your clothes smell strong enough, which God knows they seem to, we might confuse the Hound, anyway."
"Good luck."
They shook hands again and glanced at the t-v. The Electric Hound was on its way, followed by mobile camera units, through alleys, across empty morning streets, silently, silently, sniffing the great night wind for Mr. Leonard Montag.
"Be seeing you!"
And Montag was out the door, running lightly, with the half empty case. Behind him, he saw and felt and heard the garden sprinkler system jump up, filling the dark air with synthetic rain to wash away the smell of Montag. Through the back window, the last thing he saw of Faber was the older man ripping up the carpet and cramming it in the wall incinerator.
Montag ran.
Behind him, in the night city, the Electric Hound followed.
HE STOPPED now and again, panting, across town, to watch through the dimly lighted windows of wakened houses. He peered in at silhouettes before television screens and there on the screens saw where the Electric Hound was, now at Elm Terrace, now at Lincoln Avenue, now at 34th, now up the alley toward Mr. Faber's, now at Faber's!
"No, no!" thought Montag. "Go on past! Don't turn in, don't!"
He held his breath.
The Electric Hound hesitated, then plunged on, leaving Faber's house behind. For a moment the t-v camera scanned Faber's home.
The windows were dark. In the garden, the water sprinkled the cool air, softly.
THE Electric Hound raced ahead, down the alley.
"Good going, Professor." And Montag was gone, again, racing toward the distant river, stopping at other houses to see the game on the t-v sets, the long running game, and the Hound drawing near behind. "Only a mile away now!"
As he ran he had the Seashell at his ear and a voice ran with every step, with the beat of his heart and the sound of his shoes on gravel. "Watch for the pedestrian! Look for the pedestrian! Anyone on the side-walks or in the street, walking or running, is suspect! Watch for the pedestrian!"
How simple in a city where no one walked. Look, look for the walking man, the man who proves his legs. Thank God for good dark alleys where men could run in peace. House lights flashed on all about.
Montag saw faces peering street-ward as he passed behind them, faces hid by curtains, pale, night-frightened faces, like odd animals peering from electric caves, faces with gray eyes and gray minds, and he plunged ahead, leaving them to their tasks, and in another minute was at the black, moving river.
He found what he was looking for after five minutes of running along the bank. It was a row-boat drawn and staked to the sand. He took possession.
The boat slid easily on the long silence of river and went away downstream from the city, bobbing and whispering, while Montag stripped in darkness down to the skin, and splashed his body, his arms, his legs, his face with raw liquor. Then he changed into Faber's old clothing and shoes. He tossed his own clothing into the river with the suitcase.
He sat watching the dark shore. There would be a delay while
Faber shook his hand vigorously. "You don't know what this means. I'll do anything to help you in the future. Get in touch with me in Boston, then."
"One more thing. A suitcase, Get it, fill it with your dirty laundry, an old suit, the dirtier the better, denim pants maybe, a shirt, some old sneakers and socks."
Faber was gone and back in a minute. Montag sealed the full suitcase with scotch tape. "To keep the odor in," he said, breathlessly. He poured a liberal amount of cognac over the exterior of the case. "I don't want that Hound picking up two odors at once. Mind if I take this bottle of whisky? I'll need it later. When I get to the river, I'll change clothes."
"And identities; from Montag to Faber."
"Christ, I hope it works! If your clothes smell strong enough, which God knows they seem to, we might confuse the Hound, anyway."
"Good luck."
They shook hands again and glanced at the t-v. The Electric Hound was on its way, followed by mobile camera units, through alleys, across empty morning streets, silently, silently, sniffing the great night wind for Mr. Leonard Montag.
"Be seeing you!"
And Montag was out the door, running lightly, with the half empty case. Behind him, he saw and felt and heard the garden sprinkler system jump up, filling the dark air with synthetic rain to wash away the smell of Montag. Through the back window, the last thing he saw of Faber was the older man ripping up the carpet and cramming it in the wall incinerator.
Montag ran.
Behind him, in the night city, the Electric Hound followed.
HE STOPPED now and again, panting, across town, to watch through the dimly lighted windows of wakened houses. He peered in at silhouettes before television screens and there on the screens saw where the Electric Hound was, now at Elm Terrace, now at Lincoln Avenue, now at 34th, now up the alley toward Mr. Faber's, now at Faber's!
"No, no!" thought Montag. "Go on past! Don't turn in, don't!"
He held his breath.
The Electric Hound hesitated, then plunged on, leaving Faber's house behind. For a moment the t-v camera scanned Faber's home.
The windows were dark. In the garden, the water sprinkled the cool air, softly.
THE Electric Hound raced ahead, down the alley.
"Good going, Professor." And Montag was gone, again, racing toward the distant river, stopping at other houses to see the game on the t-v sets, the long running game, and the Hound drawing near behind. "Only a mile away now!"
As he ran he had the Seashell at his ear and a voice ran with every step, with the beat of his heart and the sound of his shoes on gravel. "Watch for the pedestrian! Look for the pedestrian! Anyone on the side-walks or in the street, walking or running, is suspect! Watch for the pedestrian!"
How simple in a city where no one walked. Look, look for the walking man, the man who proves his legs. Thank God for good dark alleys where men could run in peace. House lights flashed on all about.
Montag saw faces peering street-ward as he passed behind them, faces hid by curtains, pale, night-frightened faces, like odd animals peering from electric caves, faces with gray eyes and gray minds, and he plunged ahead, leaving them to their tasks, and in another minute was at the black, moving river.
He found what he was looking for after five minutes of running along the bank. It was a row-boat drawn and staked to the sand. He took possession.
The boat slid easily on the long silence of river and went away downstream from the city, bobbing and whispering, while Montag stripped in darkness down to the skin, and splashed his body, his arms, his legs, his face with raw liquor. Then he changed into Faber's old clothing and shoes. He tossed his own clothing into the river with the suitcase.
He sat watching the dark shore. There would be a delay while
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