The Fireman By Ray Bradbury
I
Fire, Fire, Burn Books
THE four men sat silently playing blackjack under a green drop-light in the dark morning. Only a voice whispered from the ceiling: "One thirty-five a.m. Thursday morning, October 4th, 2052, A.D.... One forty a.m.... one fifty..."
Mr. Montag sat stiffly among the other firemen in the fire house, heard the voice-clock mourn out the cold hour and the cold year, and shivered.
The other three glanced up.
"What's wrong, Montag?"
A radio hummed somewhere. "… War may be declared any hour. This country stands ready to defend its destiny and..."
The fire house trembled as five hundred jet-planes screamed across the black morning sky.
The firemen slumped in their coal-blue uniforms, with the look of thirty years in their blue-shaved, sharp, pink faces and their burnt-colored hair. Stacked behind them were glittering piles of auxiliary helmets. Downstairs in concrete dampness the fire monster itself slept, the silent dragon of nickel and tangerine colors, the boa-constrictor hoses, the twinkling brass.
"I'm thinking of our last job," said Mr. Montag.
"Don't," said Leahy, the fire chief.
"That poor man, when we burned his library. How would it feel if firemen burned our houses and our books?"
"We haven't any books."
"But if we did have some."
"You got some?"
"No."
Montag gazed beyond them to the wall and the typed lists of a million forbidden books. The titles cringed in fire, burning down the years under his ax and his fire hose spraying not water but — kerosene.
"Was it always like this?" asked Mr. Montag. "The fire house, our duties? I mean, well, once upon a time..."
"Once upon a time!" Leahy crowed. "What kind of language is that?"
Fool, cried Montag to himself. You'll give yourself away! That last fire. A book of fairy tales. He had dared to read a line or so. "I mean," he said, quickly, "in the old days, before homes were completely fireproof, didn't firemen ride to fires to put them out, instead of start them?"
"I never knew that." Stoneman and Black drew forth their rule books and laid them where Montag, though long familiar with them, might read:
1. Answer the alarm quickly.
2. Start the fire swiftly.
3. Be sure you burn everything.
4. Report back to fire house.
5. Stand alert for another alarm.
Everyone watched Montag.
He swallowed. "What will they do to that old man we caught last night with his books?"
"Insane asylum."
"But he wasn't insane!"
"Any man is who thinks he can hide books from the Government or us." Leahy blew a great fiery cloud of cigar smoke from his thin mouth. He idled back.
The alarm sounded.
The bell kicked itself two hundred times in a few seconds. Suddenly there were three empty chairs. The cards fell in a snow flurry. The brass pole trembled. The men were gone, their hats with them. Montag still sat. Below, the orange dragon coughed to life.
Montag slid down the pole like a man in a dream.
"Montag, you forgot your hat!"
He got it and they were off, the night wind hammering about their siren noise and their mighty metal thunder.
IT WAS a flaking three-story house in the old section of town. A century old if it was a day, but, like every house, it had been given a thin fireproof plastic coat fifty years ago, and this preservative shell seemed to be holding it up.
"Here we are!"
The engine slammed to a stop. Leahy, Stoneman, and Black ran up the side-walk, suddenly odious and fat in their plump slickers. Montag followed.
They crashed the front door and caught a woman, running.
"I didn't hurt anyone!" she cried.
"Where are they?" Leahy twisted her wrist.
"You wouldn't take an old woman's pleasures from her, would you?"
Stoneman produced the telephone alarm card with the complaint signed in facsimile duplicate on the back. "Says here, Chief, the books are
I
Fire, Fire, Burn Books
THE four men sat silently playing blackjack under a green drop-light in the dark morning. Only a voice whispered from the ceiling: "One thirty-five a.m. Thursday morning, October 4th, 2052, A.D.... One forty a.m.... one fifty..."
Mr. Montag sat stiffly among the other firemen in the fire house, heard the voice-clock mourn out the cold hour and the cold year, and shivered.
The other three glanced up.
"What's wrong, Montag?"
A radio hummed somewhere. "… War may be declared any hour. This country stands ready to defend its destiny and..."
The fire house trembled as five hundred jet-planes screamed across the black morning sky.
The firemen slumped in their coal-blue uniforms, with the look of thirty years in their blue-shaved, sharp, pink faces and their burnt-colored hair. Stacked behind them were glittering piles of auxiliary helmets. Downstairs in concrete dampness the fire monster itself slept, the silent dragon of nickel and tangerine colors, the boa-constrictor hoses, the twinkling brass.
"I'm thinking of our last job," said Mr. Montag.
"Don't," said Leahy, the fire chief.
"That poor man, when we burned his library. How would it feel if firemen burned our houses and our books?"
"We haven't any books."
"But if we did have some."
"You got some?"
"No."
Montag gazed beyond them to the wall and the typed lists of a million forbidden books. The titles cringed in fire, burning down the years under his ax and his fire hose spraying not water but — kerosene.
"Was it always like this?" asked Mr. Montag. "The fire house, our duties? I mean, well, once upon a time..."
"Once upon a time!" Leahy crowed. "What kind of language is that?"
Fool, cried Montag to himself. You'll give yourself away! That last fire. A book of fairy tales. He had dared to read a line or so. "I mean," he said, quickly, "in the old days, before homes were completely fireproof, didn't firemen ride to fires to put them out, instead of start them?"
"I never knew that." Stoneman and Black drew forth their rule books and laid them where Montag, though long familiar with them, might read:
1. Answer the alarm quickly.
2. Start the fire swiftly.
3. Be sure you burn everything.
4. Report back to fire house.
5. Stand alert for another alarm.
Everyone watched Montag.
He swallowed. "What will they do to that old man we caught last night with his books?"
"Insane asylum."
"But he wasn't insane!"
"Any man is who thinks he can hide books from the Government or us." Leahy blew a great fiery cloud of cigar smoke from his thin mouth. He idled back.
The alarm sounded.
The bell kicked itself two hundred times in a few seconds. Suddenly there were three empty chairs. The cards fell in a snow flurry. The brass pole trembled. The men were gone, their hats with them. Montag still sat. Below, the orange dragon coughed to life.
Montag slid down the pole like a man in a dream.
"Montag, you forgot your hat!"
He got it and they were off, the night wind hammering about their siren noise and their mighty metal thunder.
IT WAS a flaking three-story house in the old section of town. A century old if it was a day, but, like every house, it had been given a thin fireproof plastic coat fifty years ago, and this preservative shell seemed to be holding it up.
"Here we are!"
The engine slammed to a stop. Leahy, Stoneman, and Black ran up the side-walk, suddenly odious and fat in their plump slickers. Montag followed.
They crashed the front door and caught a woman, running.
"I didn't hurt anyone!" she cried.
"Where are they?" Leahy twisted her wrist.
"You wouldn't take an old woman's pleasures from her, would you?"
Stoneman produced the telephone alarm card with the complaint signed in facsimile duplicate on the back. "Says here, Chief, the books are
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