451 по фаренгейту
It was a pleasure to burn
Hewascertainifhetriedthesameroute,everythingwouldworkoutfine. Butitwaslate,andthearrivalofhistrainputastoptohisplan.
Theflutterofcards,motionofhands,ofeyelids,thedroneofthetime-voiceinthefirehouseceiling "...onethirty-five.Thursdaymorning,November4th...onethirty-six...onethirty-sevena.m...? Thetickoftheplaying-cardsonthegreasytable-top,allthesoundscametoMontag,behindhisclosedeyes,behindthebarrierhehadmomentarilyerected. Hecouldfeelthefirehousefullofglitterandshineandsilence,ofbrasscolours,thecoloursofcoins,ofgold,ofsilver: Theunseenmenacrossthetableweresighingontheircards,waiting.
"...oneforty-five..."Thevoice-clockmournedoutthecoldhourofacoldmorningofastillcolderyear.
"What’swrong,Montag?"
Montagopenedhiseyes.
Aradiohummedsomewhere. "...warmaybedeclaredanyhour.Thiscountrystandsreadytodefendits—"
Thefirehousetrembledasagreatflightofjetplaneswhistledasinglenoteacrosstheblackmorningsky.
Montagblinked.Beattywaslookingathimasifhewereamuseumstatue. Atanymoment,Beattymightriseandwalkabouthim,touching,exploringhisguiltandself-consciousness. Guilt?Whatguiltwasthat?
"Yourplay,Montag."
