451 по фаренгейту
It was a pleasure to burn
Hewalkedoutofthefirestationandalongthemidnightstreettowardthesubway wherethesilent,air-propelledtrainslidsoundlesslydownitslubricatedflueintheearth andlethimoutwithagreatpuffofwarmairantothecream-tiledescalatorrisingtothesuburb. Whistling,helettheescalatorwafthimintothestillnightair. Hewalkedtowardthecomer,thinkinglittleatallaboutnothinginparticular. Beforehereachedthecorner, however,heslowedasifawindhadsprungupfromnowhere, asifsomeonehadcalledhisname.
Thelastfewnightshehadhadthemostuncertainfeelingsaboutthesidewalkjustaroundthecornerhere, movinginthestarlighttowardhishouse. Hehadfeltthatamomentbeforehismakingtheturn,someonehadbeenthere. Theairseemedchargedwithaspecialcalm asifsomeonehadwaitedthere,quietly,andonlyamomentbeforehecame, simplyturnedtoashadowandlethimthrough. Perhapshisnosedetectedafaintperfume, perhapstheskinonthebacksofhishands,onhisface, feltthetemperatureriseatthisonespot whereaperson’sstandingmightraisetheimmediateatmospheretendegreesforaninstant. Therewasnounderstandingit. Eachtimehemadetheturn,hesawonlythewhite,unused,bucklingsidewalk, withperhaps,ononenight,somethingvanishingswiftlyacrossalawn beforehecouldfocushiseyesorspeak.
Butnow,tonight,heslowedalmosttoastop. Hisinnermind,reachingouttoturnthecornerforhim,hadheardthefaintestwhisper. Breathing? Orwastheatmospherecompressedmerelybysomeone standingveryquietlythere,waiting?
Heturnedthecorner.
