Ray Bradbury 3-Book Collection: Fahrenheit 451, The Martian Chronicles, The Illustrated Man

And it was indeed remarkable. Something had happened. Even though the people in the walls of the room had barely moved, and nothing had really been settled, you had the impression that someone had turned on a washing-machine or sucked you up in a gigantic vacuum. You drowned in music and pure cacophony. He came out of the room sweating and on the point of collapse. Behind him, Mildred sat in her chair and the voices went on again:

‘Well, everything will be all right now,’ said an ‘aunt’.

‘Oh, don’t be too sure,’ said a ‘cousin’.

‘Now, don’t get angry!’

‘You are!’

‘I am?’

‘You’re mad!’

‘Why should I be mad!’

‘Because!’

‘That’s all very well,’ cried Montag, ‘but what are they mad about? Who are these people? Who’s that man and who’s that woman? Are they husband and wife, are they divorced, engaged, what? Good God, nothing’s connected up.’

‘They –’ said Mildred. ‘Well, they – they had this fight, you see. They certainly fight a lot. You should listen. I think they’re married. Yes, they’re married. Why?’

And if it was not the three walls soon to be four walls and the dream complete, then it was the open car and Mildred driving a hundred miles an hour across town, he shouting at her and she shouting back and both trying to hear what was said, but hearing only the scream of the car. ‘At least keep it down to the minimum!’ he yelled: ‘What?’ she cried. ‘Keep it down to fifty-five, the minimum!’ he shouted. ‘The what?’ she shrieked. ‘Speed!’ he shouted. And she pushed it up to one hundred and five miles an hour and tore the breath from his mouth.

When they stepped out of the car, she had the Seashells stuffed in her ears.

Silence. Only the wind blowing softly.

‘Mildred.’ He stirred in bed.

He reached over and pulled one of the tiny musical insects out of her ear. ‘Mildred. Mildred?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was faint.

He felt he was one of the creatures electronically inserted between the slots of the phono-colour walls, speaking, but the speech not piercing the crystal barrier. He could only pantomime, hoping she would turn his way and see him. They would not touch through the glass.

‘Mildred, do you know that girl I was telling you about?’

‘What girl?’ She was almost asleep.

‘The girl next door.’

‘What girl next door?’

‘You know, the high-school girl. Clarisse, her name is.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said his wife.

‘I haven’t seen her for a few days – four days to be exact. Have you seen her?’

‘No.’

‘I’ve meant to talk to you about her. Strange.’

‘Oh, I know the one you mean.’

‘I thought you would.’

‘Her,’ said Mildred in the dark room.

‘What about her?’ asked Montag.

‘I meant to tell you. Forgot. Forgot.’

‘Tell me now. What is it?’

‘I think she’s gone.’

‘Gone?’

‘Whole family moved out somewhere. But she’s gone for good. I think she’s dead.’

‘We couldn’t be talking about the same girl.’

‘No. The same girl. McClellan. McClellan. Run over by a car. Four days ago. I’m not sure. But I think she’s dead. The family moved out anyway. I don’t know. But I think she’s dead.’

‘You’re not sure of it!’

‘No, not sure. Pretty sure.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’

‘Forgot.’

‘Four days ago!’

‘I forgot all about it.’

‘Four days ago,’ he said, quietly, lying there.

They lay there in the dark room not moving, either of them. ‘Good night,’ she said.

He heard a faint rustle. Her hands moved. The electric thimble moved like a praying mantis on the pillow, touched by her hand. Now it was in her ear again, humming.

He listened and his wife was singing under her breath.

Outside the house, a shadow moved, an autumn wind rose up and faded away. But there was something else in the silence that he heard. It was like a breath exhaled upon the window. It was like a faint drift of greenish luminescent smoke, the motion of a single huge October leaf blowing across the lawn and away.

The Hound, he thought. It’s out there tonight. It’s out there now. If I opened the window …