The Fireman by Ray Bradbury Read Free Book Online Page A

did not mention the war, even though the house was shaking constantly with the flight of new jets from four directions, and an intolerable quiz show naming the state capitals.
     
    Montag sat tapping his fingers on his knee and exhaling.
     
    Abruptly, he walked to the televisor and snapped it off.
     
    "I thought we might enjoy a little silence."
     
    Everyone blinked.
     
    "Perhaps we might try a little conversation..."
     
    "Conversation?"
     
    THE house shook with successive waves of jet bombers which splashed the drinks in the ladies' hands.
     
    "There they go," said Montag, watching the ceiling. "When do you suppose the war will start?"
     
    "What war? There won't be a war."
     
    "I notice your husbands aren't here tonight."
     
    Mrs. Masterson glanced nervously at the empty t-v screen. "Oh, Dick'll be back in a week or so. The Army called him. But they have these things every month or so." She beamed.
     
    "Don't you worry about the war?"
     
    "Well, heavens, if there is one, it's got to be over with. We can't just sit and worry, can we?"
     
    "No, but we can think about it?'
     
    '"I'll let Dick think of it." A nervous giggle.
     
    "And die maybe."
     
    "It's always someone else's husband dies, isn't that the joke?" The women all tittered.
     
    Yes, thought Montag, and even if Dick does die, what does it matter? We've learned the magic of the replaceable part from machines. You can't tell one man from another these days. And women, like so many plastic dolls —
     
    Everyone was silent, like children with a schoolmaster.
     
    "Did you see the Clarence Dove film last night?" said Mildred, suddenly.
     
    "He's hilarious."
     
    "But what if Dick should die, or your husband, Mrs. Phelps?" Montag insisted.
     
    "He's dead. He died a week ago. Didn't you know? He jumped from the tenth floor of the State Hotel."
     
    "I didn't know." Montag fell silent, embarrassed.
     
    "But to get back to Clarence Dove..." said Mildred.
     
    "Wait a minute," said Montag, angrily. "Mrs. Phelps, why did you marry your husband? What did you have in common?"
     
    The woman waved her hands helplessly. "Why, he had such a nice sense of humor, and we liked the same t-v shows and — "
     
    "Did you have any children?"
     
    "Don't be ridiculous."
     
    "Come to think of it, no one here has children," said Montag. "Except Mrs. Bowles."
     
    "Four, by Caesarian section. It's easy that way."
     
    "The Caesarians weren't necessary?"
     
    "I always said I'd be damned if I'd go through all that agony just for a baby. Four Caesarians. Nothing to it, really."
     
    Yes, everything easy. Montag clenched his teeth. To mistake the easy way for the right way, how delicious a temptation. But it wasn't living. A woman who wouldn't bear, or a shiftless man didn't belong; they were passing through. They belonged to nothing and did nothing.
     
    "Have you ever thought, ladies," he said, growing more contemptuous of them by the moment, "that perhaps this isn't the best of all possible worlds? That perhaps our civil rights and other precious possessions haven't been taken away in the past century, but have, if anything, been given away by us?"
     
    "Why, that can't be true! We'd have heard about it."
     
    "ON THAT pap-dispenser?" cried Montag, jerking his hand at the t-v. Suddenly he shoved his hand in his pocket and drew forth a piece of printed paper. He was shaking with rage and irritation and he was half blind, staring down at the twitching sheet before his eyes.
     
    "What's that?" Mrs. Masterson squinted.
     
    "A poem I tore from a book."
     
    "I don't like poetry."
     
    "Have you ever heard any?"
     
    Mildred jumped up, but Montag said, coldly, "Sit down." The women all lit cigarets nervously, twisting their red mouths.
     
    "This is illegal, isn't it?" squealed Mrs. Phelps. "I'm afraid. I'm going home."
     
    "Sit down and shut up," said Montag.
     
    The room was quiet.
     
    "This is a poem by a man named Matthew Arnold," said Montag. "Its title is Dover