451 по фаренгейту
Burning Bright
Montagkepthissicknessdownlongenoughtoaimtheflame-thrower. "Turnaround!"
Theyturned,theirfaceslikeblanchedmeat,streamingsweat; hebeattheirheads,knockingofftheirhelmetsandbringingthemdownonthemselves. Theyfellandlaywithoutmoving.
Theblowingofasingleautumnleaf.
HeturnedandtheMechanicalHoundwasthere.
Itwashalfacrossthelawn,comingfromtheshadows,movingwithsuchdriftingeasethatitwaslikeasinglesolidcloudofblack-greysmokeblownathiminsilence.
Itmadeasinglelastleapintotheair,comingdownatMontagfromagoodthreefeetoverhishead, itsspideredlegsreaching,theprocaineneedlesnappingoutitssingleangrytooth. Montagcaughtitwithabloomoffire, asinglewondrousblossomthatcurledinpetalsofyellowandblueandorangeaboutthemetaldog, claditinanewcoveringasitslammedintoMontagandthrewhimtenfeetbackagainsttheboleofatree,takingtheflame-gunwithhim. HefeltitscrabbleandseizehislegandstabtheneedleinforamomentbeforethefiresnappedtheHoundupintheair, burstitsmetalbonesatthejoints,andblewoutitsinteriorinthesingleflushingofredcolourlikeaskyrocketfastenedtothestreet. Montaglaywatchingthedead-alivethingfiddletheairanddie. Evennowitseemedtowanttogetbackathimandfinishtheinjectionwhichwasnowworkingthroughthefleshofhisleg. Hefeltallofthemingledreliefandhorrorathavingpulledbackonlyintimetohavejusthiskneeslammedbythefenderofacarhurtlingbyatninetymilesanhour.
