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ENTERTAINMENT FOR MEN 


PLAYBOY 


Address PLAYBOY 
11 E. Superior St. 
Chicago 11, Illinois 
KIND WORDS 


Yours is an entirely different men's 
magazine and hearty congratulauons to 
you on іг. After ten hours a day listen- 
ing to other folks’ troubles, it's a real 
pleasure to settle down to an evening 
with PLAYBOY. I'm enclosing a check 
for two subscriptions — one for inyself 
and one for a very good dentist friend 
of mine. 

E. M. Lindstrom, M.D. 
New York, New York 


I could write pages of compliments; 
all ГИ say is it's terrific. Enter my 
subscription for three years. I think 
PLAYBOY has a great future ahead 
and I, for one, want to have all the 
copies. 

Glenn Miller 
Reading, Pa. 


I saw an issue of your magazine at 
a friend's house and it brings back 
memories of the “old Esquire." I en- 
joyed reading it, but unfortunately I 
had to return it to him; he didn't seem 
to want to part with it. So here is a 
check for a subscription of my own. 
Robert B. Shumway 
Phoenix, Arizona 


My brother loaned me one issue of 
PLAYBOY цо read this evening. It's 
sensational! It's the type of magazine 
any man will enjoy. It's wonderful 
reading entertainment! I have never 
subscribed to any magazine before, but 


De 


ll 


Playboy 


I must subscribe to PLAYBOY to make 

certain [ receive every issue. 
Clarence W. Cox, Jr. 
Granite City, Illinois 


I enjoy your magazine very much. І 
think it's the best man's magazine on 
the market and apparently a good 
many others fcc] the same way as it 
sells out here in a hurry. Last night I 
happened to be in a local candy store 
and a couple of sailors came in asking 
for PLAYBOY. When they were told 
there was only one copy left, they had 
a big argument over who was going to 
get it. 

Joseph R. Hansen 
Bayonne, N. J. 


I enjoy every page of your wonder- 
ful magazine. As a retired detective, 
life here on the farm gets a little dull 
and your magazine adds just the spice 
necessary. Hope you can include an 
occasional hunting article in your 
sports section. : 

Clifton J. Cline 
New Matamoras, Ohio 


Just bought my first issue of PLAY- 
BOY and I'm sorry I missed the previ- 
ous issues. Particularly liked Erskine 
Caldwell's "Medicine Man" and “Tales 
From The Decameron.” Cartoons are 
great too. Your “Miss March" was 
worth the price of the magazine by 
itself, 

Carl A. Rozze, Sr. 
Drexel Hill, Pa. 


I sure do like PLAYBOY. It har 
more than anything I've ever seen in a 
magazine. I only wish it was а weekly, 
so І wouldn't have to wait a whole 
month for each new issue. How about 
some more articles like “Sin In Para- 
dise" and satirical pieces like "My Gun 
Is The Jury.” 

Mike O'Hara 
University of Lincoln 
Lincoln, Nebraska 


ADVERTISING 


PLAYBOY is an excellent magazine. 
If you plan to accept advertising, we 
would appreciate your advising us as to 
rates, circulation, deadlines, et cetera. 

Clyde Melton, V. Pres. 
McMains & Melton Adv. Agcy. 
Dallas, Texas 


PLAYBOY will begin accepting suit- 
able advertising in May for its fall is- 
SUES. 


BACHELOR’S CLUB 


I'm forming a bachelor's club and 
am getting ready to start a drive for 
membership. Thought you'd like to 
know we're offering a year's subscrip- 
tion to PLAYBOY to each new mem- 
ber. 

Melvin C. Shaw 
Media, Penn. 


MAD AND COOL 


Just draggin’ the graphite to let you 
know the men have been separated 
from the boys — playboys, that is! And 
we (the latter) wish to commend you 
on stepping forward with the mascu- 
line type of entertainment which we 
have been waiting for. The whole gang 
thinks your full page colored sections 
are really gone — mad and cool. Also 
believe they are improving as time 
passes. You scored again with the 
science fiction story, "Fahrenheit 451," 
and we enjoyed your last tale from the 
"Decameron" very much; looking 
ahead for more. From the sidelines, 
the boys are inquiring about the pos- 
sibility of your skinning that cute, 
curvaceous, heart palpitating, апа pro- 
portionately stacked bunny that dec- 
orates your magazine from time to time. 
We believe Bunny Babe should be 
your Miss June; or at least July. 

“The Nineteen” 
Pierceton, Indiana 


FAHRENHEIT 451 


Your story “Fahrenheit 451" in the 
March issue of PLAYBOY stinks! І 
will not buy the next two issues of 
PLAYBOY because of it. Гуе read a 
lot of stories in my day but this one is 
the worst. It stinks! 

Clay Stoker 
Baltimore, Md. 


Р. 5. Come to think of it, everything 
in the March issue stinks. 


Congratulations on printing Ray 
Bradbury's excellent science fiction 
novel, “Fahrenheit 451.” Ray has been 
a good friend for a number of years 
and gifted me with the original manu- 
script to F.451 a few months back. 
At that time I termed it a classic in 
the field and upon re-reading the first 
installment in your magazine my opin- 
ion seems justified. And the story is 
enhanced by Ben Denison’s superb 
illustration. 

William F. Nolan 
Culver City, California 


SKEPTICAL SUBSCRIBER 


Enclosed is my check for $6.00 for 
a years subscription to PLAYBOY. 
The reason I am not entering a sub- 
scription for three years is because, 
confidentially, I doubt that you can 
maintain the blistering pace set in 
your first four issues. If PLAYBOY 
degenerates into just another "girlie" 
magazine, punctuated here and there 
by hack articles, I'll be more than 
happy to see my twelve months run 
out, BUT, if you should continue with 
excellent fiction such as Ray Brad- 
bury's "Fahrenheit 451," articles like 
“Trouble In Tobaccoland,” Roger 
Prices humor, combined with your 
present imaginative pictorial work . . . 
By the way, what are your lifetime 
rates? 

С. Н. Adams 
Oklahoma City, Okla. 


Ah, friend Adams, if you've enjoyed 
the first issues, wait till you see the 
ones coming up. More Bradbury, Er- 
skine Caldwell, Max Shulman, Roger 
Price, Earl Wilson, John Collier, Vir- 
gil Partch, John Held, Jr, plus W. 
Somerset Maugham, Thorne Smith, 
and some very special surprises we 
aren't talking about. 


PLAYBOY AT WALTER REED 


I've received all of your PLAYBOY 
magazines and sure appreciate your 
articles and choice of picture mater- 
ial. I am in the hospital here in 
Washington, D. C. and just as soon as 
I finish an issue the other fellows in 
my ward are after it. We'd all like to 
see more of Marlene; she still has it, 
even at 531 We'd also like more of 
Marilyn. 

Cpl. Guy B. Widmeyer 
Walter Reed Army Hospital 
Washington, D. C. 


NO BLOOD AND GUTS 


On a recent trip to Fort Worth, I 
discovered your handsome new mag- 
azine for men. I think it's great (and 


so does my wife.) I've become so dis- 
gusted with all the other "men's mag- 
azines" 1 never buy them any more. 
They're crammed with sensationalism, 
blood and guts storics, and hot rods, 
not to mention the gyp advertising on 
every page. 

Junior E. Rutherford 

Terminal, Texas 


THE INDOOR MAN 


1 whole-heartedly back your idea 
of staying at home. I'm getting tired 
of reading about "Joe Jones’ Jaguar 
Jaunts For Jerks,” even though I en- 
joy the outdoors. I enjoy it, but I'm 
getting tired of reading about it. And 
it seems that the publishers of the 
other "men's magazines’ have one 
idea in mind — EVERYBODY OUT- 
SIDE! Too much of anything is bor- 
ing indeed. 

Speaking of outdoors, I've one sug- 
gestion. The particular theme of the 
"he-man" sports, i.e., football, base- 
ball, etc, is also overdone. Might I 
suggest some articles on the "gentle- 
men's sports?” 

Include Picasso, Nietzche, jazz, and 
sex (as you promised in your intro- 
duction in the first issue), works from 
classic literature, and the other good 
things in life that can be enjoyed in 
an easy chair, and you have acquired 
a lifetime subscriber. 

S/Sgt. J. A. Robinson 
Hamilton Air Force Base 
Hamilton, California 


REA 


After studying Gardner Rea's car- 
toon on page 25 in your February is- 
sue, the members of my fraternity dis- 
agree on the artist's intention. Would 
you be kind enough to settle our arg- 
ument. 

Arlen J. Kuklin 
Lincoln, Nebraska 


8 в 


After successfully lifting an umbrel- 
la, cigar, and top hat, the kleptomaniac 
approaches a pregnant lady flaunting 
а fox fur and, т а way comprehensi- 
ble only to the twisted mind of a car- 
toonist, he manages to swipe, not the 
fur, but the bulge of pregnacy. 

This cartoon seemed to confuse read- 
ers even more than Vip's bathtub gag 
in the first issue. Believe we'll print a 
cartoon with no point whatever one 
of these days just to see if our readers 
are really paying attention. 


SEMPER PLAYBOY 


Letter writing is a little out of my 
line, but when you see some outstand- 
ing work it is time to Start writing. 
Im referring to your new magazine, 
PLAYBOY. I imagine you have al- 
ready received thousands of letters 
complimenting you on your good work. 
I have read your book from cover to 
cover. I passed it round this marine 
barracks and so many men have read 
it that there isn't much left, but it is 
still changing hands. We're all look- 
ing forward to your next issue. 

Doyle Vergon 
Camp Lejeune, N. C. 


NUDE GIRLFRIENDS DEPARTMENT 


Needless to say, I enjoy your new 
magazine immensely. As the saying 
goes, "It hits the spot!” I enjoy most 
of all (after the photos, of course) the 
“Tales From The Decameron.” They 
are much more interesting a la PLAY- 
BOY. 

Am enclosing a snap I took of a 
fine looking female. You may print 
it if you wish, as I'd like to find her 
again myself. I believe she is in the 
Los Angeles area at present, but un- 
fortunately I have lost contact. Nice, 
eh? 

Jack Richards 
Yuma, Arizona 

P.S. If you should hear from the 
girl and get her address, don't be a 
stinker, let me know. 


Yep, Jach, she looks like just our 
type. We'd like to print the picture of 
her that you sent, but since she for- 
got to put her clothes on for it and 
you didn't send along a model release, 
we're afraid if we тап it we might 
hear from the girls lawyer instead of 
the girl herself. Sure, if she writes us, 
we'll send you her address — and if 
she happens to write to you, how about 
sending it to us?! 


WHAT PLAYBOY NEEDS 


Hurrah! Somebody has at last start- 
ed putting the fun back in a sexy mag- 
azine. The only suggestion І can 
make (must be the librarian coming 
out) is that you include some book 
reviews. 

Bob L. Mowery, Librarian 
McNeese State College 
Lake Charles, Louisiana 


Would like to suggest a couple of 
pages on men's fashions, plus a story 
or two on real-life playboys. 

Jim Nuzum, Jr. 
Phoenix, Arizona 


How about some crossword puzzles? 


Art McNeeze 
Portland, Oregon 


CONTENTS FOR 
THE MEN’S ENTERTAINMENT MAGAZINE 


THREE DAY PASS—humor ....... » MAX SHULMAN 5 
"WONT YOU STEP INTO MY PARLOR?“—design.................... 9 


HOW TO APPLY FOR A JOB—article SHEPHERD MEAD 11 


NUDES ВУ WEEGEE—pictorial .... ....WEEGEE 15 


FOOLING THE COLLEGE BOY—pictorial JOHN HELD, JR. 17 


FAHRENHEIT 451—fiction ........... RAY BRADBURY 19 


“KILL THE UMPIRE!’—sports JACK STAUSBERG 21 


PLAYBOY'S PROGRESS—pictorial 
MISS MAY—Playboy's playmate of the month... 26 


TALES FROM THE DECAMERON-—fiction BOCCACCIO 28 


UNMENTIONABLES—pictorial e 30 
PLAYBOY'S PARTY JOKES—humor ...... 33 


SURGERY —pictorial LEJAREN ‘A HILLER 39 


HUGH M. HEFNER, editor and publisher 
RAY RUSSELL, associate editor 
ARTHUR PAUL, art director 


Playboy is published monthly by the HMH Publishing Co., Inc., 
11 E. Superior, Chicago 11, Illinois. Postage must accompany all 
manuscripts and drawings submitted if they are to be returned 
and no responsibility сап be assumed for unsolicited materials. 
Contents copyrighted 1954 by HMH Publishing Co., Inc. Nothing 
тау be reprinted in whole or in part without written permission. 
Printed in U.S.A. Any similarity between people and places is 
purely coincidental. 

Subscriptions; In the U. S., its possessions, and Canada, $13.00 
for three years; $10.00 for two years; $6.00 for one year, in ad- 
vance, Elsewhere, $12.00 a year, in advance. 

Credits: Cover collage by B. Paul, photographed by Jonesboro; 
Р. 5 "Three Day Pass” from “The Feather Merchants," copyright, 
1944, by Max Shulman, published by Doubleday & Co., Inc.: P. 17 
irom “The Works of John Held, Jr." with permission of the author; 
P. 19 "Fahrenreit 451% copyright, 1950, by World Editions, Inc, 
copyright, 1953, by Ray Bradbury printed with permission of 
Harold Matson; P. 26-7 courtesy of John Baumgarth Co., Melrose 
Park, Illinois; P. 47 from "Stag At Eve" with permission of 
Gardner Rea. 


vol. 1, no. 6 


/ 


P L A у ВІ L L A number of our 

readers, while com- 
menting favorably on the Hartog 
Shirt story in the March issue, com- 
plained at not seeing more of the 
lovely model, Joanne Arnold. The best 
Way to quiet these mumblings, we felt, 
was to feature Joanne as a Playmate of 
the Month, so you'll find her on page 
26 with nary a shirt in sight. 

Max Shulman, author of this 
month's lead story, doesn't require any 
introductions. He's responsible for 
such literary masterpieces as Barefoot 
Boy With Cheek and Sleep Till Noon, 
and is gencrally recognized as the fun- 
niest fellow writing today. ““Uhree Day 
Pass" is his second story for PLAYBOY 
and one we're sure you'll enjoy. 

“The Saga of Frankie and Johnny" 
caused a sufficient stir to prompt our 
acquiring more fine old engravings 
by that fine old engraver, John Held, 
Jr. “Fooling The College Boy” in this 
issue is the first of a series. 

This issue includes the last install- 
ment of Ray Bradbury's novel, “Fahr- 
enheit 451." Ray writes, "I thought І 
was describing a world that might 
evolve in four or five decades. But 
only a few weeks ago, in Beverly Hills 
one night, a husband and a wife passed 
me, walking their dog. I stood staring 
after them, absolutely stunned, The 
woman held in one hand a small cig- 
arette-package-sized radio, its anten- 
na quivering. From this sprang tiny 
copper wires which ended in a dainty 
cone plugged into her right саг. There 
she was, oblivious to man and dog, 
listening to far winds and whispers 
and soap-opera cries, slecp-walking, 
helped up and down curbs by а hus- 
band who might just as well not have 
been there. This was not fiction. This 
was a new fact in our changing society. 
As you can see, І must start writing 
very fast indeed about our future 
world in order to stand still." There 
will be more Bradbury soon. 

To round out this sixth issue of 
PLAYBOY, we've added some very 
unusual nudes by Weegee, humorous 
pieces on business and baseball, а pic- 
torial history of surgery, another tale 
from the Decameron, and a suitable 
sprinkling of cartoons and jokes. 


may, 1954 


OUR OFFICE BOWLERS get горе 
er every Wednesday evening. After- 
wards some of the fellows meet at the 
bar for a couple of rounds and friend- 
ly discussions on politics, philosophical 
ideas, and broads. 

On this particular Wednesday, we 
were recalling some of the humorous 
times we'd had in service. The war 
years, with the super-patriotism, ra 
tioning, and man-hungry females, 
scemed like another world now. 

Our traffic manager recalled an 
amusing weekend he'd spent in Wash- 
ington, D. C. with a willing girl and 
no hotel room—our head of person- 
nel told about several experiences he'd 
had in and around London—but my 
three day pass topped ‘em all. It was 
right here in Minneapolis—it got my 
picture on the front page of the 
Press-Telegram—and it won back my 
girl. 

The Rocket didn't leave from Kan- 
sas City until noon, and it was only 
nine o'clock. I checked my bags and 


>) As flash-bulbs popped, І blew the bridge! 


You probably have a few humorous war-time memories of your 
own —but it’s doubtful that any of them top Dan Miller's 


got shaved by a lady barber named 
Delilah who complimented me оп the 
texture and consistency of my skin and 
mentioned that she had little, if any- 
thing, to do that evening. Taking 
my pointed silence for shyness, she in- 
vited me to come up to her place for 
a home-cooked meal, after which she 
promised she would show me how 
to hone a razor properly. "Full many 
a razor has been ruined by improper 
honing,” she said thickly, dusting my 
face lingeringly with talc and slipping 
into the pocket of my blouse a card on 
which was written her name, address, 
telephone number, and the admoni- 
tion; "If not at home the first time, 
try, try again!" 

At noon the train caller announced, 
not without pride, that the Rocket was 
on time. "There followed a charge oí 
an intensity not seen since the Cim- 
arron was opened. The train seats 
were filled in an instant. Nimble 
young men leaped into the baggage 
racks and were shortly joined by a con- 


THRE 
DAY 


PASS 


by MAX SHULMAN 


` 


humor 


` ILLUSTRATION BY JUSTINE WAGER 


PLAYBOY 


TH RE E І) AY PASS (continued from preceding page) 


tingent of lithe, long-flanked girls 
returning to college after the Easter 
Holidays. Next the aisles were jammed 
with passengers sitting on upended 
suitcases. A young devotee of group 
singing whipped a harmonica from 
his pocket and started to play “Praise 
the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.” 
With many cries of “What the hell. 
War is war,” the passengers joined 
the singing, except for a group of 
marines, piled like cordwood in the 
rear of the car, who stoutly sang 
“From the Halls of Montezuma.” 
The conductor, grown grizzled in the 
service of the line, came upon the 
scene and frankly wept. 

Aloof in his Diesel sanctum, the 
engineer released the throttle ог 
whatever the hell they do, and the 
train rolled forward. 

I had just come from six months in 
Oklahoma, which is a dry state. In 
Oklahoma, if you want some whisky, 
you go to the nearest hotel and ask 
the bellboy for a pint. There is a 
little good-natured formality that 
you go through before you get it. 
He asks what kind vou want. You 
say Old Schenley or Ancient Age or 
Four Roses or some such name. Then 
he goes down to the basement and 
finds an empty bottle of the brand 
you named. He fills that from his 
gallon jug of moonshine. He brings it 
to you; you give him five dollars, and 
after a few secretive winks and ex- 
pressive smackings of lips you slink 
off to a dark room and bolt the swill 
as quickly as you can. 

Frequently, as I had lain on an 
Oklahoma floor waiting for welcome 
paralysis and oblivion, I had mused 
about the wet and dissolute North 
where a man can order a highball and 
sit in a clean, well-lighted place sip- 
ping, smoking, making small talk, 
and looking out the windows at pass- 
ers-by as frankly as if he lived a good 
life. I had promised myself that 
the very first time I left Oklahoma 
I would hit for the nearest bar to lux- 
uriate in a resumption of what I liked 
to think of as civilized lushing. 

Always one to keep promises of this 
nature, 1 squirmed out from under 
two women officers who had abused 
their ranks somewhat and were sitting 
on my lap, and hacked my way to the 
club car. 

A group of friendly revelers made 
room for me at their table. “Sit down, 
Sarge,” inyited a jovial, round man. 

By the time we had reached the 
Iowa line we were all fast friends. The 
globular fellow who had invited me 
to sit down was Leo Nine, a Southern 
congressman and author of such legis- 
lation as the Nine-Estes bill to tax 
Negroes for not voting, the Nine-Coy 
bill to sell Ellis Island, and the Nine- 
Carruthers bill to spay school-teachers. 
He was on his way to Minnesota for 


a farm-bloc conference where it was 
planned to find a new and imagina- 
tive interpretation of parity. 

Miss Spinnaker, the lady in the 
party, was a maiden teacher of Eng- 
lish at the Harold Stassen High School 
in Minneapolis. Two men completed 
the group—Mr.  Torkelbergquist, a 
Minneapolis rubber-goods dealer, and 
Senor Rarrara, a South American 
commercial attaché. 

The afternoon passed with drinking 
and conversation. Leo Nine told ot 
crowded Washington conditions and 
how he himself had scarcely been able 
to find lodgings. Only after many 
days of searching, he said, was he able 
to sublease an apartment from three 
horribly scarred women who were in 
Washington posing for propaganda 
posters. 

Torkelbergquist explained the ris- 
ing birth rate as a consequence of the 
rubber shortage, speaking, out of def- 
crence to Miss Spinnaker, in oblique 
terms. He had grave Malthusian fears 
about the outcome of the situation 
and after a few drinks hinted delicate- 
ly at regulated female infanticide. 

Senor Rarrara told of his country’s 
war effort. Their air force, he said, 
had lately acquired several pusher- 
type biplanes and the slingshots of two 
divisions of infantry had already been 
replaced with muzzle-loaders. As for 
their navy—Rarrara chuckled omin- 
ously—Jet any U-boat venture up the 
Orinoco and it was a dead pigeon. 

I looked at posters on three sides 
of me which proclaimed in turn, 
“LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS," “THE 
ENEMY 15 LISTENING," апа 
“NORTH AND SOUTH, KEEP 
SHUT THE MOUTH," and I said 
nothing. 

Also silent was Miss Spinnaker. At 
first she listened attentively to who- 
ever spoke, smiling or chuckling, 
whichever was warranted, at the proper 
points in the narratives. But after 
a bit her attention started to wander. 
She smiled at the wrong times and 
once laughed explosively as Leo Nine 
described the dignitv of Lee's bearing 
at Appomattox. A little later she 
gave up listening altogether and began 
sticking her ancient legs out in the 
aisle to trip the waiters. When the 
waiters learned to step carefully over 
her sere limbs, she turned to stick- 
ing her thumb in our drinks when we 
weren't looking, and finally to snatch- 
ing them up and drinking them. 


Chivalrously these matters were 
not brought to her attention. The 
conversation continued. Leo Nine 


was telling about the pioneer days 
when his family had crossed the fron- 
tier in an Angostura wagon. He had 
been born on that journey, the tenth 
child in the family. His father had 
been a scholar, he explained, and had 
named him Leo, which means ten in 


Latin. At this point Miss Spinnaker 
began shouting a raucous ballad en- 
titled “Thirty Years a Chambermaid 
and Never A Kiss 1 Got.” Only then 
was any note taken of her conduct. 

"Really, Miss Spinnaker!” said Leo 
Nine. 

"I suppose," she said, "you think 
Im just a dried-up old virgin." 


“Really, Miss Spinnaker!" said 


` Torkelbergquist. 


“1 suppose, she continued, “you 
think I use a bed just to sleep in.” 

“Really, Miss Spinnaker!” said Rar- 
гага. 

"I suppose you think І don't know 
what a roll in the hay is." 

“Really, Miss Spinnaker!” I said, 
not caring how many enemy agents 
heard me. 

She drained all four of our glasses 
as we sat back aghast. "I've worked 
every cat house from Honolulu to 
Rio," she announced. "You look sur- 
prised. Well, maybe you won't be 
when you see a picture of how I 
looked in those days." 

She opened her knitting bag and 
passed around an old daguerreotype. 
I was only twenty-four years old, but 
I knew a picture of Lillian Russell 
when I saw one. 

"Ihey called me 'Hot Helen' then. 
Sometimes just “Ног” I serviced ‘em 
all—kings and stevedores, bankers and 
draymen. Jim Fisk gave те this.” 
She showed us a trylon-and-perisphere 
souvenir ring from the 1939 New 
York World's Fair. “ ‘Hot Jim' I 
used to call him." 

She lit a cigarette recklessly. 

"During the Bull Moose conven- 
uon I did twelve thousand dollars' 
business in one night," she said. “That 
was my best night, but I had plenty 
almost as good. Don't worry, I've 
Bot a nice little nest egg stashed away 
in the Morgan Bank. Old J. P.'s tak- 
ing care of it for me. ‘Hot J. Р. I 
used to call him." 

A new waiter walked by, and she 
tripped him neatly. She reached over 
and swiped a drink from the next 
table. 

"Ive shilled every crooked wheel 
from Singapore to Hatteras,” she 
roared. “ ‘Lucky Lou’ they used to 
call me. T dealt six-pack bezique to 
prime ministers and played the shell 
game with bumpkins. Arnold Roth- 
stein gave me this.” She showed us the 


Ting again. 
“ ‘Hot Arnold’ I used to call him. 
"Poker, craps, dominoes, faro, 


blackjack, euchre, red dog—I know 
'em all. Name your game, gents. I'll 
play any man from any land any 
game he can name for any amount he 
can count." 

She rose unsteadily to her feet. 
“Waitll I go to the toilet, and ru 
tell you all about the days I ran 
Chinks over the border." 

She lurched down the aisle. "I 
once smugged (continued on page 8) 


а 
; ў J 


3 4 7 / 


y 


SET 


Moe) 


"I thought he was going to ask me for my hand— 
but he had another part of my anatomy in mind.” 


PLAYBOY 


TH RE E D AY PASS (continued from page 6) 


in Sun Yat-Sen. “Ног Sun’ I used to 
call him,” she yelled over her shoulder. 

She stumbled into the nearest lav- 
atory, exiting hurriedly, speeded by 
the shouts of angry men. 

“Well, gentlemen,” said Leo Nine, 
"we're almost in. І guess ГІІ be going. 
Now, you all be sure to look me up 
when you're in. Washington.” 

"You bet," we said. 

lorkelbergquist and Rarrara left 
immediately afterward, cach inviting 
me to look him up. 

"You bet,” І said. 

After a while Miss Spinnaker camc 
walking feebly back. She was very pale. 
She sank weekly into a chair. “І was 
told,” she said, “that if you drink a 
tablespoon of olive oil before you 
begin, it doesn't affect you." 

"It doesn't work," I said. 

"No, Í suppose not" She looked 
at me for a long while. "Weren't you 
in my English class a few years ago?” 

"About ten years ago." 

“Miller,” she said, remembering. 
“Harold Miller." 

"Daniel." 

"Yes, Daniel. 
Daniel.” 

“Nice to see you too, Miss Spin- 
naker." 

We both looked out the window. 
We were coming into Minneapolis. 


It's nice seeing you, 


l spent my first day at home with 
the folks. Ordinarily І would have 
spent the evening with my girl, 
Estherlee, but Estherlee and І had 
had a slight misunderstanding, and 
she was now busy going steady with a 
marine. 

The night before I had left for the 
Army we had, as she cuphemistically 
put it, “gone all the way.” A quick 
unsatisfactory spasm it had been, but. 
nonetheless, a major step. Weeks of 
conversations, reassurances, plans, va- 
cillations, considerations, rationaliza- 
tions, yeas and nays, pros and cons, 
had preceded the act. At length a 
sort of agreement had been reached, 
an agreement that had half negated 
itself during its actual consummation. 

I'd enlisted in the aviation cadets 
just before graduation from the Uni- 
versity of Minnesota. I waited through 
the summer for my induction orders. 
During the days I went around doing 
little kindnesses for people so that 
they would remember me favorably 
when I was dead. The nights were 
spent with Estherlee in hot, desperate 
clinging. Bravely we talked about how 
dulcet and decorous it was to die for 
one's country. From our morbid con- 
victions it followed naturally that we 
deserved a little of the summum 
bonum before it was too late; would 
in fact, be remiss not to take it. So 
we talked and necked and hemmed 


and hiwed and needled one another 
into emotional turmoils until the 
night before 1 left, when we finally 
agreed that my certain destiny ош- 
weighed the moral considerations. In 
spite of gnawing lastminute doubts 
and fantastic inexperience on her part 
and acute nervousness on mine, it 
was done. І went off dry-eyed to war, 

For three weeks І was an aviation 
cadet. As cager as any of them, І 
bounded from my bed at reveille, 
learned to salute, drill, march, and 
sing the Air Corps song, did calisthen- 
ics that previously 1 had seen only 
on the Orpheum circuit, ran around 
the camp during my off-duty hours 
to develop my mind, read nothing 
but aircraft-silhouette books, and TORE 
ice-cold showers. By God, I said, feel- 
ing my flabby muscles congeal, I'm go- 
ing to get some of them bastards be- 
lare they get me. 

Then I washed out on a slight 
technicality—something about І 
couldn't see. ; 

І was transferred to the Air Force 
sround forces and sent to a new Okla- 
homa airfield as a member of the 
Headquarters Company. When they 
gave me a desk and a typewriter of 
my very own, І considered suicide. Іп 
my righteous, civilianish opinion, a 
soldier who held a desk job was a 
slacker, unless he was deathly ill, and 
such I suspected of malingering. But 
І soon learned you don't put ten mil- 
lion citizens in an army and get them 
where they have to be, fully trained 
and fully equipped, without a mil- 
lion miles of paper. Every spoon in 
every mess kit and every Flying Fort- 
ress has to be accounted for. I soon 
saw that each soldier who types, files. 
and records papers is im every sense 
a soldier. І learned my work and 
learned it well; my rapid promotions 
proved that. 

І had. however, some difficulty con- 
vincing my girl. There she was, sitting 
in Minneapolis, trying to convince 
herself that our last night was some- 
thing fine and beautiful and waiting 
for my death notice to square her 
conscience. And there were my let- 
ters coming from bombproof Oklaho- 
ma: “Darling, today I was promoted 
to private first class.” “Darling. today 
І was promoted to corporal.” “Darling, 
today І was promoted to sergeant.” 
“Darling, today I'm real busy getting 
out a survey of non-expendable office 
supplies.” “Darling, today І cut my 
finger on the edge of a piece of paper. 
I went to the infirmary and they put 
some sulfa on it, and it feels better 
already. Isn't sulfa wonderful?" 

Estherlee sat there waiting for "The 
War Department regrets" and I sent 
her news of promotions and cut fing- 
ers. She got hotter and hotter, and 
her letters got colder and colder. In 
her last one she said, "You must be 


feeling proud of yourself sitting there 
in Oklahoma at your safe job and 
knowing that you got what you want- 
ed from me." 

“I should live so long, Estherlce, 
I wrote back, "that little episode is 
all forgotten. It means nothing to me." 

I must have said something wrong, 
because alter that she started going 
steady with the marine. 

My second day home, L visited my 
old alma mater. І wandered across 
the green campus. Leggy coeds flexed 
and posed, apparently to keep in prac- 
tice, because, except for a few under- 
age freshmen, there were no men in 
sight. Emboldened by sharp, two-noted 
whistles and undeniable winks, I 
stopped and talked to a group of four 
coeds, “Nice day,” І said. 

"It certainly is, Lieutenant," cooed 
one, smiling and wiggling late pubic 
acquisitions. 

“This spring weather," sighed an 
other, slithering sinuously over the 
grass. "It does something to me. Does 
it do something to you, Captain?" 

"I feel so kind of cuddly and lovey, 


" 


Major," a third confessed, debarking 
a young spruce with her writhing 
back. 


The fourth went all out. “Colonel,” 
she panted, “let's.” 

I escaped with bruises and continucd 
my walk. There were coeds every- 
where. Some leaned against buildings. 
Some hung out of windows. Some sat 
in convertibles with motors running 
(both the convertibles” and the coeds). 
Some fidgeted on the grass. All kept 
their eyes peeled for the infrequent 
male—the draftproof aeronautical-en- 
gineering student, the medical student 
finishing his course under army spon- 
sorship, the seventeen-year-old Fresh- 
man, the bald or balding professor. 

One of the lastnamed fell in be: 
side me as 1 walked. "I won't deny," 
he said, guessing what І was think- 
ing, "that at first I was pleased by all 
this. To be whistled at, jostled against, 
and mentally undressed by an attrac- 
tive young woman is flattering. 1 am 
still a young man, relatively speaking, 
and І ат stilt a sound man biologically 
if I exercise prudence, It is not un- 
pleasant to be the object of such las- 
civious overtures, and there is some 
poetic justice in it too. 

"In previous years I used to stare 
at these girls and think my thoughts, 
and when I reached the boiling point, 
as it were, I went to an understand- 
ing trollop who served me at these 
times. I never resented the indiffer- 
ence of the coeds, their obliviousness 
to my feelings. To be sure, I concealed 
my feelings, for I am а man of dignity. 
But nonetheless, when a younger man 
lusted after one of these young 
women, no matter how well he dis- 
guised his passion, she always was 
aware of it and acted accordingly. 
But I—when І saw them rolling a 
stocking or (continued on page 10) 


LIKE MR. SPIDER, the smart play- 
boy keeps his surroundings inviting— 
and that means simple and modern. 
You can forget the idea that a clut- 
tered apartment is typically masculine 
and, therefore, charming as hell to 
the ladies. 

Today's female gives a guy's quart 
ers the once over and if they're on the 
соту side, she's apt to figure the guy 
is too. And good taste isn't just a 
matter of money; you can furnish a 
place simply and effectively on a rel- 
atively small bank roll. 

The striking designs on this page 
were created by New Dimensions as 
the finishing touch for truly modern, 
livable rooms. They're fresh in con- 
cept, durable in construction, xea- 
sonably priced, and they can make 
a playboys apartment an exciting 
place even when the lights are on. 


1.) Wire mesh ashtrays with glass in- 
serts, 6G" diameter (left), $2.50, 8" 
diameter (center), $3.50; cigarette con- 
tainer, $1.30. 

2.) Wine cradle, in black steel, $4.00, 
or brass, $5.00. 

3.) Cocktail table in black steel, with 
thick glass top, 16" diameter 15” high. 
4.) Steel mesh table lamps with fiber 
glass shades, 1214” high, square, 
round, or triangular, $13.00 each. 
5.) Stecl rod book and magazine rack, 
30" high, 36" long, $20.00. Any of 
these pieces can be ordered through 
The Men's Shop; address PLAYBOY, 
11 E. Superior St., Chicago 11, Illinois. 


"WON'T 
YOU 

STEP INTO 
MY 
PARLOR?” 


CR talie кнр гош ыа: 


spider: 


he makes his web attractive. 


РА 
". ر‎ 


PLAYBOY 


THREE DAY PASS cnt ron pose 9 


settling a twisted breast in its harness 
(braziers, I believe they are called), 
they would proceed with their tasks 
as unhurriedly as though a glimpse of 
thigh or mammae had no more effect 
on me than on a hall tree. 

"But, as I say, I did not resent that. 
І am a teacher to whose care the 
young are entrusted for learning. I 
considered it an oblique tribute to my 
excellence as a teacher that these 
young women did not think of me as 
a man, Nevertheless, І was gratified at 
first when I became one of the few 
remaining men on the campus and 
cognizance was taken of my gender 
at least. Now when I see them rolling 
a stocking they hoist their skirts down 
with alacrity. But now they roll their 
stockings whenever they think I'm 
looking. 

“At first, I say, I was gratified. But 
soon it became disconcerting. I have 
neither the money nor the strength 
to make all the visits to my friend бае 
І have felt the need for in recent 
months. And to make advances to 
a student is unthinkable. Caught be- 
tween the Scylla of excitement and 
the Charybdis of age plus a fixed in- 
come, I am going to pot. 

“I have offered my services to the 
Army, but they informed me that the 
demand for experts in Byzantine archi- 
tecture is slack at this time and that 
no boom is anticipated.” 

He stopped in front of a lecture 
hall. 

"Now," he said, "I am going to give 
a lecture. There is one man in my 
class, a frail youth whose health pre- 
cludes military service. God grant 
that he is well enough to be here to- 
day so that I may fasten my eyes on 
him and thus be able to deliver my 
lecture. I cannot stand much more of 
breast and leg and hot, mascaraed 
eyes. Good-by, young man. Buy 
bonds.” 

After an afternoon on campus, I 
required the services of the professor's 
friend myself. 

е е е 

І spent the last evening of my pass 
with Sam Wye. Sam was home on fur- 
lough after eighteen months of engin- 
eer's training. He looked happy and 
fit-his shoulders had broadened, his 
bucktoothed squirrel's face was brown 
underneath his crew haircut. 


Sam was a strange fellow. Let's not 
say he was sadistic—let’s just call him 
mischievous. Yes, mischief governed 
his every action. Anyone who was 
around Sam long enough—a whole ev- 
ening, for instance—would most cer- 
tainly become involved in his machin- 
ations. Not even his own mother and 
father were exempt. Those two had 
been living acutely incomplete lives 
since Sam had convinced them that 
normal relations past forty result in 


10 


curvature of the spine. 

His dog, Nero, was also a study in 
neurosis. By walking past Nero every 
day for weeks with a plate of ham- 
burger, then going into his room, 
closing the door, and purring, Sam 
had persuaded the hapless beast that 
he was discriminating against him in 
favor of a cat. He further rocked 
Nero’s sanity by feigning inadvert- 
ence and calling him Kitty. 

Sam's torts against me included 
signing my name to letters he sent 
to the Atlanta Constitution urging the 
practice. of miscegenation, alienating 
a young woman with whom I was 
making good progress by telling her 
that all my forebears were midgets, 
and prevailing upon те to make a 
fourth in a quarter-of-a-cent bridge 
game with three strangers who he 
knew full well were a touring bridge- 
exhibition team. On these occasions 
and many more І had soberly consid- 
ered breaking with him, but with a 
world full of dullards, you don’t cast 
off Sam Wyes. 

On this particular evening, we went 
to the Sty, a charming little tearoom 
on the edge of town run by a retired 
madame. Red, green, and yellow neon 
lights bathed the front of the place 
in a soft glow, and cheery signs 
blinked: “CHECKS CASHED,” 
“BEST FLOOR SHOW IN TOWN,” 
"OPEN ALL NIGHT," “DRINK 
OLD SPECIMEN,” and “BUY 
BONDS.” The proprietress, looking 
old-worldly in a red satin gown slit 
down one side to expose a flaccid 
thigh, bid us welcome at the door. 
“Just in time, gents,” she said. "Floor 
show's just going on." 

And indeed it was. We paid our 
three-dollar couvert and were releg- 
ated to a newly built, but as yet un- 
enclosed addition within artillery 
range of the dance floor. Renting 
binoculars from a cigarette girl in 
a rather daring costume (she was 
mother naked), we adjusted the lenses 
and watched the first number. 

It was entitled simply "America." 
A line of lasses clad in red. white and 
blue G-strings and a dab of phos- 
phorus on each nipple advanced to 
the center of the floor, kicked once 
to the left, once to the right, about- 
faced, touched buttocks by pairs, 
aboutfaced, and screeched a charm- 
ing patriotic ditty that ended, “We'll 
stick with our boys through thick and 
thin, Uncle Sammy-Whammy's going 
to win!" 

They waited for the laggards among 
them to finish, kicked once to the left, 
once to the right, about-faced, touched 
buttocks by pairs (a routine they 
knew  consummately, and retired 
from the floor. 

We ordered drinks from a waiter 
who was about to get nasty about it. 
"Can't live offn people just settin’ 


around," he chided gently as he 
brought our watered whisky and water. 

Two ripe matrons came over to our 
table. The bolder one said, "We been 
watching you two soldiers, and we 
thought you might be lonesome, so we 
though we'd join you if you don't 
mind,” 

“For patriotic reasons," said the 
other. 

They sat down. "I'm Mrs. Spetal- 
nik, said the first, "and this is my girl 
friend, Mrs. Gooberman.” 

“Blanche and Marge,” supplied the 
second. 

“Which is which?” asked Sam. 

His little jest dispelled the formal- 
ity, and we fast became friends. We 
ordered drinks, whiskey for us, sloe- 
gin fizzes for the ladies. “I seldom 
ever drink,” said Blanche, whom I had 
drawn. “It just helps sometimes to get 
away from the war. Know what 1 
mean?” 

“I understand,” I said simply. 

“What's your gentlemen’s names?” 
asked Madge. 

“Oh, excuse me,” Sam said. “This 
is Robert Jordan, and I am Montag 
Fortz." 

"Pleased, I'm sure," they said. 

"IH bet you gentlemen have seen 
plenty of action," Blanche said. 

"L nothing. But Robert—" said 
Sam. “Tell them of the bridge, Rob- 
ert.” 

“The floor show,” I said. 

The m. с. was at the microphone 
calling for order. During the pre- 
ceding number, a routine in which 
the girls from the chorus had wand- 
ered among the tables patting the cus- 
tomers' heads, one of them had failed 
to return, and there was some con- 
fusion. At length the m. c. restored 
quiet. "And now, ladies and gentle- 
men,” he said, "let's get serious for a 
moment. We're all having a lot of 
fun, but our hearts are with the boys 
over there." A blue spot was thrown 
on him, and the pianist played soft 
chords. “Everybody here has got 
somebody near and dear to them over 
there,” he continued. "Let's take 
time out for a minute and think of 
them. They haven't got it easy in the 
mud and filth of their fox holes. They 
never know when death will strike 
them, but they don't complain. 
They've got a job to do." 

Blanche's hand stole into mine. 

"We're all doing all we can on the 
home front." There was a round of 
applause, "But we must do even more, 
although it don't hardly seem possible. 
So tonight Miss Emma Fligg, propriet- 
ress of the Sty, has arranged a little 
added attraction." 

Miss Fligg stuck her leg through 
the slit in her dress and bowed in 
acknowledgement of the ovation. 

“Tonight,” the m. с. went on, "we're 
all going to have a chance to make a 
further contribution toward speed- 
ing the day (continued on page 16) 


HOW TO APPLY 


LET US ASSUME you are young, 
healthy, clear-eyed and eager, anxious 
to rise quickly and easily to the top 
of the business world. 

You can! 

If you have education, intelligence, 
and ability, so much the better. But 
remember that thousands have reached 
the top without them. You, too, can 
be among the lucky few. 

Just have courage, and memorize 
the simple rules in this series of ar- 
ticles in the next few issues of PLAY- 
BOY. 


CHOOSE THE RIGHT COMPANY 

This is the first essential, neglected 
by so many. There are thousands and 
thousands of "right" companies. Find 
them. Make sure your company fits 


FOR A JOB by SHEPHERD MEAD 


these easy requirements: 

l. It must be BIG. In fact, the big- 
ger the better. It should be big 
enough so that nobody knows exactly 
what anyone else is doing. 

2. It should be in a Big City. This 
is not essential, but it helps. New York 
City is best, but many others will qual- 
ify. The reasons are too complicated 
to be taken up here, but will be dis- 
cussed thoroughly in a later article. 

3. Beware of "Service" Companies. 
Be sure yours is a company that makes 
something, and that somebody else has 
to make it. Any company with a fac- 
tory will do. Beware of organizations 
offering personal services, whether they 
be law offices, advertising agencies, or 
animal hospitals. "They will give you 
few opportunities to relax, or to plan 


your future. 

This will leave you a wide field. 
Remember, you are about to embark 
on the sea of life, It is important to 
choose men you would like to sail with. 


DON'T BE A SPECIALIST 


If you have a special knack, such as 
drawing or writing, forget it. You may 
receive more at the very start for spec- 
ial abilities, but don't forget the Long 
Haul You don't want to wind up 
behind a filing case drawing or writ- 
ing! 

It is the ability to Get Along, to 
Make Decisions, and to Get Contacts 
that will drive you ahead. Be an 
“all-around” man of no special ability 
and you will rise to the top. 


The first of a series of articles on how to succeed in business without really trying. 


11 


HOW TO GET THE INTERVIEW 
The first step is to get in, to get 
the appointment. A friend's recom- 
mendation is helpful, or a letter stat- 
ing useful experience. But if you 
have no useful friends or any related 
experience, don’t be discouraged! 
se an Idea. For Dad, a bright, 
chatty "come-on" letter and a snappy 
photo were enough. Not so today. 
Your prospect throws away a basketful 
of them every day. Your Presentation 
will have to stand out. Be original! 
Be dramatic! 

Think how you would feel if you 
were a personnel man and a quartet 
arrived singing a clever set of lyrics 
like "He's a Big Man, Rivers!” to the 
tune of “Old Man River.” Or, “The 
Smith a Mighty Man Is He.” 

If your name isn’t Rivers or Smith, 
a few moments’ thought will turn up 
a dandy for you. 

Another sock idea is a boxing glove 
and prayer book, attached to a snappy 
note beginning: "For that old Sunday 
punch you need a man like (Insert 
your name here)." 

Remember this: It's easy to drop a 
letter in the wastebasket, but it's hard 
to overlook a piece of artillery or a 
Shetland pony. 

Think up one yourself. The surface 
has barely been scratched. 

Warning: Avoid Sentimentality. A 
lock of your hair, a photo of you as 
a tiny tot, or a baby shoe may force 
a tear, but it will not get you a job. 


REFERENCES 


Always include references in your 
presentation. If few people will spcak 
well of you, list uncles or cousins 
with different surnames. 

A good trick is to list a recently de- 
ceased tycoon, scratching his name off 
lightly. 


12 


Suppose you happen to run into the 
head of a large corporation. 


"Poor Bunny," you will say later in 
the interview, “I'll take his name off 
my new résumé.” 

SEIZE YOUR OPPORTUNITIES 

Though you, as a keen young man, 
must plot a straight course and an ac- 
curate one for your business career, 
leaving little to chance, you must 
nevertheless be ready on an instant's 
notice for the knock of Opportunity. 

This is particularly true in the early 
stages before you make your connec- 
поп. 

Suppose, for example, you happen to 
run into the head of a large corpor- 
ation: 


“Oops, sorry, Mr. Biggley, didn’t 
mean to knock you down!" 

"You blasted idiot!” 

“I was just coming to ask you for 
а job, sir —" 

“Dammit, you imbecile, what do 
you think we have a personnel man 
Гог?" 

Seize your opportunity! Go to the 
personnel man: 

"I was speaking to Jj. В. Biggley 
only this morning.” 

“Biggley himself?” 

“He said to see you.” 

"Not old J. B.!" 

“Oh, yes. Just happened to run 
into him.” 


Sex will be farthest from 
the male interviewers thoughts! 


RACONTEUR, 


"Well, well, Mr. uh —" 

"Finch. Pierrepont Finch." 

"Well, this may be over my level, 
Mr. Finch. Perhaps you ought to see 
Mr. Bratt." 

And so, in one way or another, you 
will have stormed the gates and the 
company of your choice will be quick 
to grant you that important interview. 


HOW TO DRESS 


Once you have been granted an ap- 
pointment, prepare carefully. The 
impression you must convey is that 
you don't really need this job — the 
job needs you. It is a challenge. Dress 
with this in mind. 


IMBIGER, 


ILLUSTRATED BY CLAUDE 


The note is one of studied care- 
lessness. By all means wear a Madi- 
son Avenue Sack Suit. If one is not 
available to you, borrow any old suit 
from a comparatively shapeless friend, 
remove the padding, and roll about 
in it on a clean level surface. 

Accessories should be kept in the 
same minor key. A black knit tie is 
good for creating the feeling that you 
don't really give a damn. Wear shoes 
of the same pair. No good being too 
relaxed. 


NO MUSTACHE 


Avoid not only mustaches, but also 
sideburns and chin whiskers. Men 


BACK SLAPPER, 


with facial hair are seldom trusted. 
(Later you will have more latitude, as 
you will see when we discuss Junior 
Executives.) 


A WORD TO WOMEN 


Women are often hired by women, 
but it is well to be prepared for any 
emergency. If you're not sure of your 
interviewer, it is best to bring along 
a handy Convertible Kit. “This con- 
sists of a Salvation Army hat (insig- 
nia removed), heavy glasses, zip-on 
Mother Hubbard, and an extra pair 
of flat-heeled shoes. These can all 
be slipped on quickly in the recep- 
tion room after the receptionist says, 


NN 


BACK STABRER, 


13 


POLITICIAN 


POKER PLAYER 


14 


~ 


Си 


є 


DECISION MAKER, 


“Miss Blank will see you now.” If, 
of course, it is Mister Blank who will 
see you, just leave your equipment 
in a neat pile in the reception room. 
No one will take it. 

Aside from your Convertible Kit, 
dress carefully, with Mister Blank in 
mind. Nothing will be wasted because 
if you do get the job, these will be 
your regular working clothes. 

It must be remembered that the 
well-bred girl is always fully clothed 
in the office. The broken shoulder 
strap, the deeply split skirt, and the 
bare midriff are de trop in most bus- 
inesses. The bright girl soon learns 
that these devices are not only in bad 
taste, but are not necessary. 

It is not skin area but contour that 
counts. 

A few simple experiments with 
sweaters, jerseys, and a slightly small- 
er dress size will bring pleasing and 
Surprising results. One young lady 
who made a careful study of contour 
planning found that results were little 
short of breath-taking. The male 
workers were stimulated and encour- 
aged, and though production dropped 
slightly, it was more than made up for 
in better morale, and greatly improv- 
ed esprit de corps. 

A common stumbling block to con- 
tour planning is occasional lack of 
contour. However, those not blessed 
by nature need not be discouraged. 
Science has come to your rescuel Sev- 
eral good commercial devices may now 
be purchased freely. 

The fact that your contour-corrected 
attire may seem sexy should not dis- 
turb you. Sex will be farthest from 
the male interviewer's thoughts! He 
will be thinking of your mind. How- 
ever, he will have learned in the 
School of Hard Knocks that good 
minds are most often found in good 
bodies, and that beauty and brains 
only too often go hand in hand! 


THE CASUAL MANNER 


Always remember that in business 
there are plenty of grubby little people 
to do the work, but a person of real 
charm is a pearl indeed. This is what 
your interviewer will be seeking and 
you must help him (or her) to find it. 

Remain relaxed, casual, friendly, and 
sympathetic. Imply that you, too, have 
sat on his side of the desk. 

"I know what a nasty chore this 
interviewing is," you say. 

"You get used to it." 

"I wouldn't mind if it were always 
people like us." 

Note the "people like us." It is al- 
ways well to include the interviewer. 

Some other valuable phrases: 


“The money is secondary. I'd like 
to be one of you people." 
Or: 

"The human values are the impor- 


tant thing, don't you think?" 


DON'T BE PINNED DOWN 

He will be interested in you as a 
person. Encourage this. But he may 
ask you specific questions about ex- 
perience, just to make conversation. 
Parry these skillfully. 

"But exactly what did you do, Mr. 
Finch?” he may ask. 

“All phases of the operation. ГІІ 
send you a detailed résumé.” (He'll 
forget this.) 

"But couldn't you tell me just one 


"I like that picture! Van Gogh?" 
Keep him off balance. But keep 
things on a high planel 


"WHY DID YOU LEAVE?" 


If you are leaving a job, or if you 
have a job and are seeking a better 
one, you may be asked, "Why did you 
leave?" or "Why do you want to 
leave?" 

Even if you were fired, and thrown 
bodily out the door, remember this: 
Don't be bitter. This would mark you 
as a sorehead, or difficult personality. 

Remember these phrases: 

“They're a grand bunch of people." 
Or: 

“They were mighty happy years, 
mighty." 

Since this, of course, will not an- 
swer your interviewer's question, he 
may repeat, “Well, then, why did (do) 
you want to leave?" 

Tread carefully here! The impres- 
sion you want to convey is that you 
can get along with anyone, no matter 
how difficult. Imply that you, some- 
how, were above them. 

“І felt that І had outgrown them,” 
is useful. 

Or: 

"Let's face it. 
you people." 
Or: 

"Well, it's an old outfit. I want 
to work with young men." (If the in- 
terviewer is young.) 

Or (if he is old): 

“Somehow they seem a bit callow. 
I want a shop with experience!” 

After a few such interviews you will 
be hired quickly. You will then have 
your foot on the first rung of the 
ladder. 

(Next month: "How to Rise 
from the Mail Room."). 


They're not up to 


"MNS Y пошта q роцеўцаа ‘peasy puoudeug Aq 'zosr ‘13u 4002 а ЗШ, AIK NOLA sesujsng ор pearong ор SH., MOI 


NUDES BY WEEGEE 


THE GUY with three eyes is known as Weegee, and he 
has built a considerable reputation as a photographer of 
the streets of New York—capturing, on film, the humor, 
foibles, and tragedy of a big city’s people. The best of 
these pictures were collected a few years back in a re- 
markable volume titled Naked City. 

Recently Weegee packed up his photographic parapher- 
nalia and took himself a trip to Hollywood. What he 
brought back was quite a shock to those familiar with his 
more realistic camera style. The best of these have been 
collected in a book titled Naked Hollywood, with captions 
by Mel Harris, published by Pellegrini and Cudahy. As 
the samples on this page illustrate, Weegee found Holly- 
wood a very naked place indeed, and just as out-of-this- 
world as we'd always heard it was. 


pictorial 


PLAYBOY 


T H R E E DAY PASS (continued from page 10) 


of victory. Come out, Miss Petite.” 
Miss Petite came out. “Ladies and 
gentlemen, Dawn Petite!” 

Dawn Petite was dressed in а cos- 
tume of four strategically placed war 
bonds. “Who'll buy my bonds?" she 
asked. 

"Yes, ladies and gentlemen," said 
the m. c, “who'll buy Miss Petire's 
bonds and win the privilege of taking 
them off? The first one goes for 
$18.75." 

A large man in a black, pin-striped 
suit with a black shirt and a yellow tie 
rushed forward. He lunged at Miss 
Petite. "Whoa," chuckled the m. c. 
"Just a minute. What is your name, 
sir?" 

"Ed Tarboosh," he said impatient- 
ly, and started for Miss Petite. 

"And what is your occupation?" 

"Riveter." 

“Riveter!” cried the m. с. 

The patrons stamped and whistled. 

“І suppose you're working on war 
materials,” said the m. c. 

"Yeh, yeh.” 

"Well, Mr. Tarboosh, 1 want to 
say for everyone here that we're grate- 
ful to you home-front soldiers.” 

“The bond,” said Mr. Tarboosh. 

"АП right. Now, Miss Petite, will 
you kindly turn around and let Mr. 
"larboosh take his $18.75 bond?" 

Although Mr. Tarboosh was more 
than a little disappointed, he made 
the best of it. 


“The next two go for $37.50 
apiece,” said the m.c. 
“I'll take them both.” cried а 


slavering fellow with 
cupped hands. 

“Your name, sir?” 

“Hitler,” he answered. “Everybody 
kids me about it. J don't think they 
should, I'm a good American.” 

“J should say you are, Mr. Hitler," 
said the announcer. “You're certainly 
showing the proper spirit tonight.” 

“І do my best," said Mr. Hitler. 

Which he also did in collecting his 
bonds. 

“The last bond goes for $75," said 
the m. с. 

Instantly the place was in an up- 
roar. From the melee one man final- 
ly reeled, his left arm hanging use- 
less, a broken beer bottle in his right. 
He snarled at the m. c, knocked the 
microphone down, and went forward 
to claim his reward as the lights went 
off. When they went on again, Miss 
Petite was in her dressing room 
nursing a chill and the m. c. was im- 
ploring everyone out on the floor to 
dance. 

“Tell us about the bridge," said 
Blanche to me. 

"Would you care to gavotte?” I 
asked. 

"You got to show me how,” she said, 
taking my arm. 

The dance floor was jammed with 


running up 


16 


war workers and their wives, war 
workers and other men’s wives, war 
workers’ wives and other men, and 
war workers’ wives dancing with war 
workers’ wives. Blanche and I inserted 
ourselves into the mass and were im- 
bedded in erotic juxtaposition until 
the music stopped. We met Sam, who 
had also been dancing, as the im- 
pressions of his brass buttons on 
Madge’s bare midriff testified, and we 
all went back to our table. 

There were four strangers sitting 
at it, a pair of twin brothers and a 
pair of twin sisters. We looked at 
them askance. “Your table?” asked one 
of the brothers jovially. "Well, think 
nothing of it. Come on, Al, we'll get 
some more chairs.” They reconnoit- 
ered briefly, unseated four near-by 
women, and came back in a moment 
with the chairs. 

“Sit down, sit down,” boomed the 
one who wasn't Al. “Plenty of room. 
Glad to have you, soldiers. We've got 
a couple of twin brothers in the 
Army ourselves, haven't we, Al?" 

“Yes,” said Al. 

We squeezed around what had orig- 
inally been a téte-4-téte table. 

“Р. B. Сек my name," continued 
Al's brother, "and this is my brother 
Al. Used cars is our business. You've 
heard of Gelt and Gelt. ‘If your last 
car smelt, try Gelt and Gelt!" And these 
are the Vanocki twins, Vera and 
Viola. Met ‘em at the twins’ conven- 
tion in St. Paul last year. Damn fine 
girls." 

They blushed in unison. 

“Charmed,” said Sam. “This is 
Madge Spetalnik and Blanche Goober- 
man and Robert Jordan and I am 
Montag Fortz." 

“Well, that's fine,” said P. B. 
"Waiter, eight shots of gin. Fortz did 
you say your name was? І used то 
know a Fortz, didn't I, Al?" 

"Yes," said Al 

"| remember now. Sold him a '?7 
Essex a couple of years ago. Had over 
100,000 miles on it, two sprung axles, 
cracked block, and not an inch of 
wiring, He never even got it home,” 
chuckled Р. В. “Мо relation of yours, 
I hope.” 

“My father,” said Sam. “He spent 
his last nickel for that car. My mother 
was selling shoelaces door to door at 
that time, She was out at a little 
settlement about thirty miles north of 
here when she was suddenly stricken 
with scrofula. The only chance was 
to get some serum to her immediately, 
and the only way to reach her was by 
car. Dad pawned everything he had 
in the world to buy that саг. He didn't 
make it." 

"Well, see here," said P. B., "I feel 
I ought to do something—" 

"It doesn't matter," said Sam. "She 
was getting old anyway." 

"It's nice of you to say so," said 


Г. B. The waiter brought the drinks. 
"Eight more. By God, Fortz, you're not 
paying for a thing tonight. That's the 
least І can do." 

“I'll bet you gentlemen have seen 
plenty of action,” said Vera and 
Viola in unison. 

“Robert has,” said Blanche. 
them about the bridge, Robert." 

"Mustn't let our drinks get cold," 
I said brightly. 

We drank. "We've got a pair of twin 
brothers in the service,” said P. B. 
“They're walkie-talkies." 

"What about the bridge?" chorused 
Vera and Viola. 

"Oh," I said, "I used to play a little 
bridge, that's all. Tell me, Mr. Gel:, 
how is the used-car business? І un- 
derstand it's getting difficult to find 

d ones.” 

"Well" said P. B. pontifically, “it 
is and it isn't. You got to know where 
to find them. I got a '38 Olds on the 
lot-drive it away for $1,100, cash or 
terms—that’s a little dandy. Just as 
good as brand new. Even better, 'cause 
it's been broke in. Used to belong 
te an old one-legged lady who just 
drove it back and forth in the garage 
for a few minutes every Sunday af- 
ternoon. Hardly a mile on the speed- 
ometer. Interested, Jordan? Might 
make a price for a serviceman." 

"No," І said, "no, I don't think so. 
I was thinking of something bigger 
than an Olds, A Mercedes-Benz or a 
Rolls, perhaps.” 

“He got used to foreign cars while 
he was on the other side,” Sam ех- 
plained. 

"Why don't you tell 'em about the 
bridge, hon?” asked Blanche. 

“Well, look who's here!” I said. 
“The waiter! I certainly am glad to 
see you." 

We drank, and P. B. ordered eight 
more. “By God, Fortz,” he said, “I’m 
sorry about your mother.” 

“Forget it,” said Sam. “She was а 
nuisance.” 

Blanche tugged at my sleeve. “Go 
on, tell ‘ет, Bob,” she urged. 

Miss Fligg was making the rounds 
of the tables. "Oh, Miss Fligg,” 1 
called. She came over. "I just wanted 
to tell you how much we're enjoying 
ourselves." 

“That's real nice, dearie,” she said. 
"I try to run a пісе homey place where 
people can have a little fun and take 
their minds off the terrible war.” 

"Ain't it the truth?" Blanche agreed. 
"I seldom ever drink, but it helps 
somctimes to get away from the war, 
like you say." 

The waiter brought the 
"Won't you have one?" I asked. 

Miss Fligg laughed lightly. "No 
thanks, dearie. Got to watch my fig- 
ger.” She exhibited her gnarled leg 
through the slit in her gown. "What 
are you drinking, gin? Have you tried 
a Sty Stinger? Specialty of the house. 
One part rye, (continued on page 18) 


"Tell 


drinks. 


am 


VP MA atas ob alfa 3 ТШ 
чш К КШ ШИТ 
ПІ m 


CUT ENTITLED: 
"SHE SAVED HER HONOR OR 
"FOOLING THE COLLEGE BOY" 


ENGRAVED BY JONN HELD JR 
ACCEPT NO SUBSTITUTES the best is none to good 


PLAYBOY 


T H RE E DAY PA з & (continued from page 16) 


one part beer, and one part pure 
Ю. 5. Р. alky. Bring these folks a 
round of Sty Stingers,” she told the 
waiter. “Well, folks, enjoy yourselfs. 
I got to go to the kitchen and watch 
the cook. “That sonofabitch puts but- 
ter in the sandwiches when I ain't 
looking." 

We drank the gin. The waiter 
brought the Sty Stingers and we 
drank those. 

“How about the God-damn bridge?” 
asked Madge. 

“Yes, tell us, Bobby,” said Blanche. 

“Yes, tell us about the bridge,” 
said Vera and Viola together. 

“We'd like to hear about it, Jor- 
dan," said P. В. "Wouldn't we, Al?” 

"Yes," said Al, 

"You tel them or 1 will" 
threatened. 

It was the Sty Stinger on top of the 
gin and whisky that did it. "Go ob- 
scenity thyself,” I told Sam. “I will 
tell them. Who blew the bridge?" 

“Thee,” said Sam. 

“Clearly,” 1. said. "It was really 
nothing. Nada. A little bridge. A boy 
of twelve could have blown it.” 

“Thou art modest,” said Sam. “It 
was a formidable bridge. The grand- 
mother of all bridges. The Frank Sin- 
atra of bridges." 

"Was it a cantilever bridge or a 
suspension bridge?" asked P. B. 

"What's the difference?" inquired 
Madge. 

"A cantilever bridge is supported 
by spans" P. B. explained, "and a 
suspension bridge hangs from wires." 

"Hangs from wires?" Madge asked. 
"Where do the wires come from?" 

"From the wire factory," Sam said. 
"Tell them of the bridge, Roberto." 

"That of the bridge fills me with 
sadness," I sighed. “1 keep thinking 
of Anselmo." 

"Who's Anselmo?" asked the twin 
sisters. 

"Private First Class Herbert Ansel- 
mo," Sam said. "He helped Robert 
with the bridge. He was killed." 

"Nevertheless, it was done," I said 
stoutly. “The Moors did not attack 
over that bridge." 

"Where was the bridge? Madge 
asked. 

“Where do you suppose the Moors 
are?” asked Р. В. irritably. “In Moor- 
occo, naturally. Aren't they, Al?” 

“Yes,” said Al 

"Before I tell,” I suggested, "let us 
have more of those drinks with the 
rare name." 

"Eight Sty Stingers,” P. B. told a 
waiter. 

"A rare name," I said. 

"Did you blow the bridge?” Blanche 
asked. 

"Did I not,” I said. "I ask thee, 
Montag." 

"Oh, did thee not," said Sam. 

"Oh, did 1 not,” I said, 


Sam 


The waiter brought another round. 
I drank mine, and Sam kindly gave 
me his, which 1 also drank. 

“Tell them from the beginning,” 
Sam said. “Tell them that of Maria.” 

“Who's Maria?” Blanche asked. 

“She of the short hair like a cropped 
wheat field,” I said dreamily. 

“Who?” Blanche demanded. 

“Maria Fishbinder,” Sam explained. 
“A woman with a feather bob who was 
sent along to keep house for Robert.” 

“Maria,” I breathed. “Ah, guapa. 
Ah, little rabbit.” 

“What?” said Blanche. 

“He says for suppa they used to eat 
a little rabbit,” Sam answered. “You 
get pretty tired of K ration.” 

“І can imagine,” said Madge. “That 
kind of stuff ain't natural. One night 
Rex—Mr. Spetalnik—brought home a 
little package of green stuff. "What's 
that?” 1 says. “That's dehydrated spin- 
ach, he says. “They's a whole bushel 
here. All you got to do is add water. 
“Rex, I says, ‘if the Lord had intended 
for spinach to be like that, he would 
have grew it that way.’ I divorced Rex 
shortly after that. Don't know how I 
stood him as long as I did. He used 
to work in the stockyards, and every 
night he came home with manure on 
his shoes. He tracked so much manure 
on the rugs things was growin’ there. 
Believe me you don’t know what us 
women go through.” 

"Amen," said Blanche. “Goober. 
man used to keep bees in our dresser. 
І opened the wrong drawer one night 
and they raised lumps all over me. 
I've still got some." 

"What about the bridge?" asked 
Vera and Viola. 

"A formidable bridge. The grand- 
mother of all bridges," I said. 

"Tell them how thou blowst it up 
after Pablo stole thy exploder," Sam 
prompted. 

"Unprint him. I this and that on 
him. That he would steal a man's ex- 
ploder." 

“That's a shoddy thing to do,” said 
PIB, 

“Tt could have been done safely. 
There was no need for Anselmo to 
die.” I complained softly. 

“Tell them how thou climbst among 
the girders of the bridge and fasten- 
ed grenades to the explosives,” I said. 

А man materialized beside me. 
“Eight Sty Stingers,” I said. “A rare 
name.” 

"Im not a waiter,” said the man. 
“Um John Smith of the Press-Tele- 
gram. But I'll be glad to buy the 
drinks if 1 can hear the rest of that 
story." 

"A reporter?" asked Sam. 

"Well, sort of. I’m temporarily on 
classified ads" John Smith replied. 

"A rare name," I said. "Even as I 
fixed the grenades to the explosives I 
could hear them coming up the road.” 


“Who?” asked John Smith. 

“The fascists," Sam answered. 

"How many of you were there?" 

"Only he and Anselmo, who was 
killed," Sam said. 

"And where was this bridge?” 

"In Moorocco," said P. B. "Wasn't 
it, Al?" 

"Yes," said Al. E 

"Maybe I better get a photograph- 
er,” said John Smith. 

"By all means," said Sam. ( 

"Here's your drink" John Smith 
said to me. "Now you drink this and 
Ill be right back. Wait for me." 

He got back as I finished the Sty 
Stinger. A rare name. "Now let me 
have your name and address," he said. 

“Г give you all that later," said 
Sam. "Let him go ahead with his 
story. You got a pencil and paper, Mr. 
Smith?" 

“Shoot,” he said. 

1 continued. "I could hear them 
coming up the road. “Thee must pull 
the wire, Anselmo, I said, ‘if they 
reach the bridge. ‘Nay,’ he said, ‘not 
while thou arst on it.’ ‘It is of no 
consequence, I said. “Thee must pull 
the wire.’ " 

“Jeez, what a story!” exclaimed John 
Smith. “ They can’t keep me on classt- 
ned uds after this one.” 

"She came to me as I lay in the 
steeping bag," I said. “ “Get in, little 
rabbir,’ 1 said. ‘Nay, I must not,’ she 
said. ‘Get in. It's cold out there, I 
said. “Thee must show me what to 
do, she said. ‘I will learn and I will 
be thy woman.’ ‘Yes,’ I said fiercely, 
жез yes - 

“What's all this?" asked John Smith. 

“Nay,” said Sam, “Tell them of the 
bridge. How thou hadst finished one 
side and they started to fire and thou 
strungest the wire down the other 
side and they started to fire and thou 
finished the other side just as they 
reached the bridge and thou saidst, 
'Pull, Anselmo, and he Дун, апа 
the bridge opened up just like a blos- 
som,” 

"Did it not,” I said. “A formidable 
bridge.” 

“This is more thin a newspaper 
story,” said John Smith. “This has the 
makings of a book!” 

“You could call it For Whom The 
Bell Tolls,” suggested Sam. 

“That's no good,” said Smith. "Hem- 
ingway's already used that title." 

"Oh," said Sam. 

"P. B. Gelt's my name,” said P. B. 
Gelt. “I imagine a newspaperman like 
you needs a good car in his business, 
doesn't he Al?" 

"Yes, said Al. 

“They're getting scarce. You could 
do worse than invest in a good car a 
few years old. They knew how to 
build cars in those days, believe me. 
Now I got a '27 Essex—" 

“Here's my photographer,” 
John Smith. Д 

"Of course, if you'd like something 
a little (continued on page 50) 


said 


з 
fiction: THE CONCLUSION OF A FRIGHTENING THREE-PART . 


FAHRENHEIT 451 


by Ray Bradbury 


WHAT HAS COME BEFORE 


When all houses, everywhere, were made completely fire- 
proof, firemen were no longer needed for their original pur- 
pose. They were given a new job, as peace-of-mind custo- 
dians. Instead of putting out fires, they set them. They 
burned books, 

To own a book was a crime. Books caused unhappiness 
— they raised questions that couldn’t be answered — con- 
flicts that couldn't be resolved. This was a perfect, conflict- ) 
free society — so all books had to be burned, 

Guy Маці was опе of this new generation of mm 
But unlike his comrades, Montag no longer enjoyed burn 
ing — seeing things eaten, blackened, changed. Clarisse 
McClellan, the strange high school girl next door, had put 
questions in his mind. She'd asked him if he was happy, " 
and h ado t been able to answer her. He did know he н 
соша ' no pleasure. (as did his wife, Mildred) in the 
ince E lroning of the tiny, — (continued on next page) 


| 


М 


One moment he was smiling—the next he was а shrieking blaze of flame. 


PLAYBOY 


F AHRENHEIT 45] (continued from preceding page) 


ear-fitting radios and the television 
"families" that covered three walls of 
their living room and threatened to 
invade the fourth. 

It unnerved him when he witnessed 
the death of an old woman who re- 
fused to leave her book-infested house 
when the firemen burned it out; it 
frightened him when the questioning 
Clarisse suddenly disappeared and 
never returned. 

Montag felt as though the world 
were closing in on him — there were 
so many questions he could find no 
answers for. Perhaps, he felt, the an- 
swers might lie within the forbidden 
books. 

Captain Beatty, the clever, articulate 
fire-chief, seemed to guess Montag's cv- 
ery illegal thought. Even the firehouse 
"hound," a robot with a dope-filled 
hypodermic snout, seemed unfriendly 
and snarled mechanically when he 
passed. 

Montag finally snapped under the 
strain — was unable to force himself to 
return to the firehouse. Captain Beatty 
diagnosed his sickness. “It’s the fire- 
men's occupational disease," ‘he said. 
“They all go through it sooner or la- 
ter" Then he talked about books. 
“They're meaningless,” he said. “Mon- 
tag, they're nothing but confusion and 
contradictions." 

But Montag was unconvinced. He 
had stolen books from a dozen fires and 
hidden them in his housc. Now he dug 
them out and began to read. The Bi- 
ble, Shakespeare, Plato. The copies he 
held in his hands might be the last in 
existence. He tried to interest his wife, 
but she couldn't understand — she 
didn't want to. 

In desperation, Montag sought out a 
man named Faber. Faber was a retired 
English Professor that Montag had met 
accidentally in a park a long time be- 
fore. "Together they talked — about 
books, and about the strange, bookless 
world they lived in. "Together, they 
found strength — together, they deter- 
mined to fight back in whatever way 
they could. The Professor had a friend 
who had been a printer. He could 
print copies of the books in Montag's 
possession — that would be a start. 

Faber gave Montag a special ear- 
radio he had invented, so they could 
communicate. That night, with Faber 
listening, Montag again snapped under 
the strain, insulted his wife's friends 
as they sat watching their favorite tele- 
vision "families," hurled curses after 
them as they departed. 

Back at the firehouse, Captain Beatty 
began needling Montag with conflict- 
ing quotations from some of the great 
writers of the past — then the fire-alarm 
sounded. When the Salamander 
boomed to a halt before the con- 
demned place, Montag looked about 
him in disbelief. 

“Something the matter, Montag?” 


20 


Beatty asked. 
"Why." said Montag slowly, “we've 
stopped in front of my house.” 


PART THREE 


Lights flicked on and house doors 
opened all down the street, to watch 
the carnival set up. Montag and Beatty 
stared, one with dry satisfaction, the 
other with disbelief, at the house before 
them, this main ring iu which torches 
would be juggled and fire eaten. 

“Well,” said Beatty, "now you did it. 
Old Montag wanted to fly near the sun 
and now that he's burnt his damn 
wings, he wonders why. Didn’t I hint 
enough when I sent the Hound around 
your place?” 

Montag’s face was entirely numb and 
featureless; he felt his head turn like 
a stone carving to the dark place next 
door, set in its bright border of flowers. 

Beatty snorted. ‘‘Oh, по! You 
weren't fooled by that little idiot's rou- 
une, now, were you? Flowers, butter- 
flies, leaves, sunsets, oh hell! It’s all in 
her file. I'll be damned. I've hit the 
bullseye. Look at the sick look on 
your face. A few grass-blades and the 
quarters of the moon. What trash. 
What good did she ever do with all 
that?” 

Montag sat on the cold fender of the 
Dragon, moving his head half an inch 
to the left, half an inch to the right, 
left, right, left, right, left. . . 

“She saw everything. She didn’t do 
anything to anyone. She just Ісі them 


alone.” 
“Alone, hell! She chewed around 


you, didn't she? One of those damn do- 
gooders with their shocked, holier-than- 
thou silences, their one talent making 
others feel guilty. God damn, they rise 
like the midnight sun to sweat you in 
your bed!” 

The front door opened; Mildred 
came down the steps running, one suit- 
case held with a dream-like clenching 
rigidity in her fist, as а beetle-taxi 
hissed to the curb. 

“Mildred!” 

She ran past with her body stiff, her 
face floured with powder, her mouth 
gone, without lipstick. 

“Mildred, you didn’t put in the 
alarm!” 

She shoved the valise in the waiting 
beetle, climbed in, and sat mumbling, 
“Poor family, poor family, oh every- 
thing gone, everything, everything ропе 
now. . " 

Beatty grabbed Montag's shoulder 
as the beetle blasted away and hit 
seventy miles an hour, far down the 
street, gone. 

There was a crash like the falling 
parts of a dream fashioned out of 
warped glass, mirrors, and crystal 
prisms. Montag drifted about as if still 
another incomprehensible storm had 
turned him, to sce Stoneman and Black 


wielding axes, shattering window-panes 
to provide cross-ventilation. 

The brush of a death'shead moth 
against a cold black screen. “Montag, 
this is Faber. Do you hear me? What's 
happening?” 

“This is happening to me,’ 
Montag. 

"What a dreadful surprise," said 
Beatty. “For everyone nowadays knows. 
absolutely is certain, that nothing will 
ever happen to те. Others die, J go 
on. There are no consequences and 
no responsibilities. Except that there 
аге. But let's not talk about them, eh? 
By the time the consequences catch up 
with you, it's too late, isn't it, Montag?" 

“Montag, can you get away, run?” 
asked Faber. 

Montag walked but did not feel his 
feet touch the cement and then the 
night grasses. Beatty flicked his igniter 
nearby and the small orange flame 
drew his fascinated gaze. 

"What is there about fire. that's so 
lovely» No matter what age we are, 
what draws us to it?" Beatty blew out 
the flame and lit it again. “It's per- 
petual motion; the thing man wanted 
to invent but never did. Or almost 
perpetual motion. If you let it go on, 
itd burn our lifetimes out. What is 
fire? It's a mystery. Scientists give us 
gobbledegook about friction and mole- 
cules. But they don't really know. Its 
real beauty is that it destroys responsi- 
bility and consequences. A problem 
gets too burdensome, then into the fur- 
nace with it. Now, Montag, you're a 
burden. And fire will lift you off my 
shoulders, clean, quick, sure; nothing 
to rot later. Anti-biotic, aesthetic, prac- 
tical.” 

Montag stood looking in now at this 
queer house, made strange by the hour 
of the night, by murmuring neighbor 
voices, by littered glass, and there on 
the floor, their covers torn off and 
spilled out like swan-feathers, the in- 
credible books that looked so silly and 
really not worth bothering with, for 
these were nothing but black type and 
ycllowed paper and raveled binding. 

Mildred, of course. She must have 
watched him hide the books in the 

arden and brought them back in. 
Mildred. Mildred. 

"I want yoy to do this job all by your 
lonesome, Montag. Not with kerosene 
and a match, but piecework, with a 
flame-thrower. Your house, your clean- 
up." 

"Montag. can't you run, get away!” 

“No!” cried Montag helplessly. “The 
Hound! Because of the Hound!” 

Faber heard and Beatty, thinking it 
was meant for him, heard. "Yes, the 
Hound's somewhere about the neigh- 
borhood, so don't try anything. 
Ready?” 

"Ready." Montag snapped the safety- 
catch on the flame-thrower. 

“Fire!” 

A great nuzzling gout of fire leapt 
out to lapat (continued on page 21) 


з 


said 


Some smiles with the pop-bot 


UMPIRES are stubborn people. They 
have to be. An ump who was easily 
swayed one way or another wouldn't 
be worth the price of a bleacher ad- 
mission іп a close ball game. The men 
in blue learn, therefore, to be stiff- 
backed about their decisions. An ос- 
casional dramatic incident, however, 
sometimes serves to change a mind 
here and there. 

A Coast League game at Tacoma, 
Washington was being rained out dur- 
ing the sixth inning. Despite appeals 
from both teams miserably wading 
through the terrific downpour, the um- 
pire wouldn't consider calling the 
game. Brick Devereaux of Los Angcles 
finally got the point across by coming 
to bat in the seventh with a life pre- 
seryer around his neck, The game was 
called. 


An umpire is rarely a popular guy. 
Whatever decision he makes on a close 
one, half the crowd thinks they were 
robbed. One afternoon in Birming- 
ham, Alabama, someone in the crowd 
called the ump a nasty name. The 
irate official raced over to the stands 
and bellowed, “Whoever said that, 
stand up!" 

Everyone on that side of the park 
stood. 

The ump turned around, put on his 
mask and mumbled, “Play ball!” 


A player has got to be subtle if he 


baseball 


targets U 


By Jack Strausberg 


ILL) THE UMPIRE!” 


selected from his book of humorous sports stories, ‘Now I'll Tell One.” 


wants to insult an umpire without 
drawing a penalty. When a clever 
rookie didn't like a strike Umpire 
George Moriarty called on him one 
afternoon, he turned and asked the 
ump how he spelled his name. 
“M-O-R-I-A-R-T-Y,” George replied, 
uzzled. 

“That's what I thought," said the 
player. "One eyel” 


Speed, not subtlety, once saved Dan 
Murtaugh of the Phillies from a pen- 
alty. After the umpire had called a 
third strike on Murtaugh, the player 
tosscd his bat about thirty feet in the 
air in a fit of temper. 

"When that bat hits the ground," 
yelled the umpire, "it will cost you 
twenty-five dollars." 

Murtaugh made one of the neatest 
catches of his career, snaring the bat 
and saving the fine. 


Ball players are often notoriously 
vain men, but some umpires run them 
a close second. Bob Emslie, for in- 
stance. The Bruins were in St. Louis 
for a tussle with the Cardinals. A slow 
roller was hit down the third base line. 
The third baseman had to come in to 
scoop up the ball and then make a 
hurried throw to first. The peg was 
wide and hit Umpire Emslic squarely 
on the head. knocking him cold. 

Give Emslie credit for the old col- 
lcge uy. As he Му on the ground, 


stretched out and apparently helpless, 
some inner fire gave him strength 
enough to reach out for his toupee, 
which had been displaced during the 
fall, and quickly slap it back on his 
shining pate. 

So doinf, his reflexes quit working 
and he remained motionless, inert but 
intact. 


Being human, umpires are not in- 
fallible. There was, for example, ‘the 
time the Giants were about to win a 
ball game when the opposition loaded 
the bases with two out. With darkness 
blanketing the field. Rusie, the New 
York pitcher, worked the count to 
three and two, and the umpire refused 
to call the game because of darkness. 
The catcher walked out to the mound 
and gave instructions to Rusie. “Go 
through the motions, but don't throw. 
ГЇЇ pound my fist in the glove." 

Rusie went through an elaborate 
windup and delivered a handful of air. 
His mate plunked his fist loudly into 
his mitt, and the ump, following the 
motion of the catcher's hands, yelled, 
“Stee-rike thu-ree!" 

With that, the batter disgustedly 
threw down his club and stepped men- 
acingly toward the arbiter. “Whaddaya 
mean, ya bum,” he shouted. “That 
pitch was a foot outside.” 


al 


zj 


o N 


14. 


Scene: Playboy's penthouse. 
Time: Shortly before midnight. 


Characters: Playboy & friend. 


Playboy enters with friend after an evening at theatre. 
Playboy removes friend's wrap- confidently assures 
self she didn't really come to his apartment to cat. 
Friend asks about food. 

Playboy puts romantic Glenn Miller records on phono- 
graph—selects only LPs. 

Friend wanders off towards kitchen. 

Playboy mixes cocktails with spiked olives. 

Friend returns munching chicken leg, accepts cocktail 
and downs it in single swallow, olive and all. 
Playboy pours another round, begins reading aloud 
from This Is My Beloved. 

Playboy pours a drink; passionate embrace on couch, 
Playboy reads selected passages aloud from Kinsey 
Report: “50% of females indulge in premarital inter- 
course," "Females who have relations make better ad- 
justments after marriage"; pours another round. 
Passionate embrace in corner. 

Passionate embrace on balcony. 

Fricnd is still hungry; passionate embrace in kitchen. 
Playboy excuses self in order to change into something 
more comfortable—puts on lounging robe—checks to 


ve 


-- 


о a ~ 
make sure he's wearing clean underwear. 


15. Playboy mixes more drinks—puts two spiked olives in 
Iriend’s. Passionate embrace near phonograph. 

16. Friend excuses herself to go to john; refuses passionate 
embrace there. 

17. Playboy pours another round. Friend is still hungry— 
staggers into kitchen. 

18. Another passionate embrace on balcony. Playboy 
suggests they adjourn to bedroom. Friend slaps play- 
| boy's face, says she's not that kind of a girl. 

19. Playboy considers tossing her off balcony. Decides 
against it—returns to living room in search of address 

| book and suitable after-midnight phone number. 

| 20. Friend returns to living room with comment that it 
has started to rain. Picks up Kinsey Report; wants 
to know where it says that about 50%, of females. 

21. Playboy wisely decides to play it cool—ignores ques- 
tion, makes vague observation about the day's stock 
market instead. 

22. Friend wants to know where it says that about females 
making a better adjustment alter marriage. 

23. Playboy feigns disinterest, remarks that the Yankees 
had an excellent afternoon, wanders off in the general 
direction of bedroom. 

24. Few moments indecision as friend considers returning 
to kitchen for more food—follows playboy instead. 

25. Playboy tosses address book into corner. Curtain. 


ae 


= 5524 


PLAYBOY 


FAHRENHEIT 45] (continued from page 20) 


the books and knock them against the 
wall. He stepped into the bedroom and 
fired twice and the twin-beds went up 
in a great simmering whisper, with 
more heat and passion and light than 
he would have supposed them to con- 
tain. He burnt the bedroom walls and 
the cosmetics chest because he wanted 
to change everything, the chairs, the ta- 
bles, and in the dining room the silver- 
ware and plastic dishes, everything that 
showed that he had lived here in this 
empty house with a strange woman who 
would forget him tomorrow, who had 
gone and quite forgotten him already, 
listening to her Seashell Radio pour in 
on her and in on her as she rode across 
town, alone. And as before, it was good 
to burn, he felt himself gush out in the 
fire, snatch, rend, rip in half with flame, 
and put away the senseless problem. If 
there was no solution, well then now 
there was no problem, either. Fire was 
best for everything! 

“The books, Montag!" 

The books Іеарі and danced like 
roasted birds, their wings ablaze with 
red and yellow feathers. 

And then he came to the parlor 
where the great idiot monsters lay 
asleep with their white thoughts and 
their snowy dreams. And he shot a bolt 
at each of the three blank walls and 
the vacuum hissed out at him. The 
emptiness made an even emptier 
whistle, a senseless scream. He tried to 
think about the vacuum upon which 
the nothingnesses had performed, but 
he could not. He held his breath so the 
vacuum could not get into his lungs. 
He cut off its terrible emptiness, drew 
back, and gave the entire room a gift 
of one huge bright yellow flower of 
burning. The fire-proof plastic sheath 
on everything was cut wide and the 
house began to shudder with flame. 

"When you're quite finished," said 
Beatty behind him. "You're under ar- 
rest." 


The house fell in red-coals and black 
ash. It bedded itself down in sleepy 
ink-grey cinders and a smoke plume 
lew over it, rising and waving slowly 
back and forth in the sky. It was three- 
thirty in the morning. The crowd drew 
back into the houses; the great tents 
of the circus had slumped into charcoal 
and rubble and the show was well over. 
Montag stood with the flame-thrower 
in his limp hands, great islands of per- 
spiration drenching his armpits, his 
face smeared with soot. The other fire- 
men waited behind him, in the dark- 
ness, their faces illumined faintly by 
the smouldering foundation. 

Montag started to speak twice and 
then finally managed to put his 
thought together. 

"Was it my wife turned in the 
alarm?” 

Beatty nodded. “But her friends 
turned in an alarm earlier, that I let 
ride. One way or the other, you'd have 


24 


got it. It was pretty silly, quoting 
poetry around free and easy like that. 
It was the act of a silly damn snob. 
Give a man a few lines of verse and 
he thinks he's the Lord of all Creation. 
You think you can walk on water with 
your books. Well, the world can get by 
just fine without them. Look where 
they got you, in slime up to your lip. 
If I stir the slime with my little finger, 
you'll drown!” 

Montag could not move. A great 
earthquake had come with fire and lev- 
eled the house and Mildred was under 
there somewhere and his entire life 
under there and he could not move. 
The earthquake was still shaking and 
falling and shivering inside him and 
he stood there, his knees half bent un- 
der the great load of tiredness and be- 
wilderment and outrage, letting Beatty 
hit him without raising a hand. 

“Montag, you idiot, Montag, you 
damn fool; why did you really do it?” 

Montag did not hear, he was far 
away, he was running with his mind, 
he was gone, leaving this dead soot- 
covered body to sway in front of an- 
other raving fool. 

"Montag, get out of there!” said 
Faber, 

Montag listened. 

Beatty struck him a blow on the 
head that sent him reeling back. The 
green bullet in which Faber's voice 
whispered and cried, fell to the side- 
walk. Beatty snatched it up, grinning. 
He held it half in, half out of his ear. 

Montag heard the distant voice call- 
ing, "Montag. you all right?" 

Beatty switched the green bullet off 
and thrust it in his pocket. "Well — so 
there's more here than I thought. I saw 
you tilt your head, listening. First I 
thought you had a Seashell. But when 
you turned clever later, I wondered. 
We'll trace this and drop it on your 
friend." 

"No!" said Montag. 

He twiwned the safety catch on the 
flame-thrower. Beatty glanced instantly 
at Montag's fingers and his eyes wid- 
ened the faintest bit. Montag saw the 
surprise there and himself glanced to 
his hands to see what new thing they 
had done. Thinking back later he 
could never decide whether the hands 
or Beatty's reaction to the hands gave 
him the final push toward murder. The 
last rolling thunder of the avalanche 
stoned down ahout his cars, not touch- 
ing him. 

Beatty grinned his most charming 
grin. “Well, that’s one way to get an 
audience. Hold a gun on a man and 
force him to Nsten to your speech. 
Speech away. What'll it be this time? 
Why don't you belch Shakespeare at 
me, you fumbling snob? “There is no 
terror, Cassius, in your threats, for I am 
arm'd so strong in honesty that they 
pass by me as an idle wind, which 1 
respect not How's that? Go ahead 


now, you second-hand literateur, pull 
the trigger." He took one step toward 
Montag. 

Montag only said, “We never burned 
пеш...” 

“Hand it over, Guy,” said Beatty 
with a fixed smile. 

And then he was a shrieking blaze, 
a jumping, sprawling gibbering manni- 
kin, no Jonger human or known, all 
writhing flame on the lawn as Montag 
shot one continuous pulse of liquid 
fire on him. There was a hiss like a 
great mouthful of spitde banging a 
redhot stove, a bubbling and frothing 
as if salt had been poured over a mon- 
strous black snail to cause a terrible 
liquefaction and a boiling over of yel- 
low foam. Montag shut his eyes, 
shouted, shouted, and fought to get his 
hands at his ears to clamp and to cut 
away the sound. Beatty flopped over 
and over and over, and at last twisted 
in on himself like a charred wax doll 
and lay silent. 

The other two firemen did not move. 

Montag kept his sickness down long 
enough to aim the flame-thrower. 
“Turn around!" 

They turned, their faces like 
blanched meat, streaming sweat; he 
beat their heads, knocking off their 
helmets and bringing them down on 
themselves. They fell and lay without 
moving. 

The blowing of a single autumn leaf. 

He turned and the Mechanical 
Hound was there. 

Tt was half across the lawn, coming 
from the shadows, moving with such 
drifting ease that it was like a single 
solid cloud of black-grey smoke blown 
at him in silence. 

It made a single last leap into the 
air coming down at Montag from a 
good three feet over his head, its spi- 
dered legs reaching, the procaine nee- 
dle snapping out its single angry tooth, 
Montag caught it with a bloom of fire, 
a single wondrous blossom that curled 
in petals of yellow and blue and orange 
about the metal dog, clad it in a new 
covering as it slammed into Montag 
and threw him ten feet back against 
the bole of a tree, taking the flame-gun 
with him. He felt it scrabble and seize 
his leg and stab the needle in for a 
moment before the fire snapped the 
hound up in the air, burst its metal 
bones at the joints, and blew out its 
interior in a single flushing of red color 
like a skyrocket fastened to the street, 
Montag lay watching the dead-alive 
thing fiddle the air and die. Even now 
it seemed to want to get back at him 
and finish the injection which was now 
working through the flesh of his leg, 
He felt all of the mingled relief and 
horror at having pulled back only in 
time to have just his knee slammed by 
the fender of a car hurtling by at 
ninety miles an hour. He was afraid to 
get up, afraid he might not be able to 
gain his feet (continued on page 32) 


HLNOW 3H1 ЗО 31VWAV1d S.AOSAV Id 


tales from the DECAMERON 


A new translation of one of the choicest stories from Boccaccio’s bawdy classic. 


THE QUEEN AND THE 
STABLE-BOY 

Agilulf, King of Lombardy, had a 
wife of surpassing Oeauty, virtue and 
charm. Her name was Theodolinda 
and her graces were such to inflame the 

assions of all men who looked upon 
er. 

One such man was a common groom 
in her stables, a fellow of humble birth 
but smart enough to know that such 
as he may look upon a queen, may ad- 
mire her, may even fecl the stirrings of 
the flesh for her, but may never hope 
to pass through the queenly portal to 
heaven. 

Thus he lived silent and hopeless, 
content with touching the hem of her 
garment when she would mount her 
steed, daring not even so much as a 
longing sigh in her presence. 

But this was not always to be. For 
the prickings of desire, as we all know, 
are bold and wayward and pour strange 
courage into the hearts of timid lovers. 
Death, thought the groom, was better 
than the day-and-nightlong ache that 
rent his being. Indeed, death seemed 
to be his only course. And if death 
were to be his Iot, then why not die in 
a grand fashion, after enjoying to thc 
full that angelic creature he desired? 

Such was his logic, and thus re- 
solved, he set his mind to devising a 
plan whereby he might lie with the 
queen. Vows of love by lips or letters 
he dismissed as fruitless: these would 
gtin him death, indeed, but without 
the satisfaction he craved. For the 
queen was a faithful wife and slept 
with none but the king. Before the 
king all doors opened. The groom 
wondered if they would also open to 
someone who merely appeared to be 
the king? He decided to find out. 

То this end, he studied the king's 
manner and movement. Hidden, he 
watched the way the king paid his oc- 
casional visits to the queen's chamber. 
Invariably, the monarch would come 
to her door wrapped in a cloak and 
holding a lighted candle in one hand, 
a sceptre in the other. He would knock 
once or twice upon the door. The door 
would open, the candle would be taken 
from him by a maid-servant, and the 
king would enter. Some time after, he 
would leave. 


28 


Noting all this carefully, the groom 
now set about procuring a cloak like 
the king's, likewise a candle and а 
sceptre. Next, he scrubbed his entire 
body in a tub, lest the aromas of the 
stable brand him as a personzge less 
than royal. 

When he was quite clean, he wrapped 
himself in the cloak, lit the candle, 
took up the sceptre, and, after the 
fashion of the king, went to the queen's 
door and knocked upon it. Straight- 
way it opened and the sleepy maid- 
servant took the candle. 

Saying not a word and pretending to 
be troubled (for he had observed that 
the king said little when worried), he 
climbed into the queen's bed and took 
her in his arms with great passion. In 
this way, he carnally knew the de- 
lighted lady not once but many times 
that night, and only his wish to escape 
discovery drew him from her bed at 
the last. 

No sooner did the groom depart than 
the king himself appeared in his cloak, 
with candle and sceptre, as always, and 
entered the bed of the queen. Much 
surprised, and encouraged by his seem- 
ing good spirits, the lady coyly said, 
“My lord, this is not like you. How 
does it come to pass that you return 
to my bed so soon after taking pleasure 
of me not once but many times? Your 
health may suffer.” 

At this, the king was grievously 
shocked, for he knew at once that some 
pretender to the throne had enjoyed a 
royal privilege in her bed by assuming 
the king's appearance. 

But wisdom prevailed. Others might 
have responded rashly and cried, “What 
say you? I was not here before. Who 
was here, then? And where is he now?" 
Not so the king. Wishing neither to 
distress his queen, bring ridicule upon 
himself, nor whet the lady's appetite 
for a sceptre other than kingly, he said 
no more than, "What, my dear? "Think 
you I am not man enough to do the 
good work yet another time?" 

"Not at all," replied the queen. “І 
was thinking only of your health." 

"Perhaps you're right," the king said. 
"You advise me well, good wife, I shall 
take my leave of you." 

He left the chamber with a heart full 
of wrath, determined to find the bold 


usurper. Knowing it could have been 
nobody but a member of his house- 
hold, he decided to go through all the 
sleeping palace to find the one man 
whose heart, still beating strongly after 
such a feat of love, would betray him 
as the culprit. Lantern in hand, the 
king began with the gallery over the 
stables. 

One by опе, he laid his hand upon 
the chests of the sleeping men. Heart 
after heart was beating in the slow 
pulse of sleep. The guilty groom, in 
bed but only feigning sleep, saw the 
dark figure of the king drawing nearer, 
and this set his heart to pounding even 
louder than before. When the king's 
hand felt this mighty beating he knew 
he had found his man. 

In the dark, the king could not see 
the fellow's face, and yet he did not 
dare light a candle, for he did not wish 
to shame his lady or himself by dis- 
closing the incident to the whole house- 
hold. Instead, he took a pair of scissors 
and marked the groom by cutting away 
his long hair on one side. By that sign, 
he would know him in the morning. 
This done, the king withdrew. 

But a fellow, albeit a low groom, who 
was cunning enough to pet into the 
queen's bed, was likewise cunning 
enough to go the king one better. See- 
ing his neighbors sleeping like the 
dead, a thought came to him and he 
stealthily arose, . . 

Early the next morning, the king 
commanded the palace locked and all 
his household to appear before him. 
One by one they filed in, and as they re- 
moved their caps out of deference to 
his great majesty, he was astounded to 
find them all shorn like sheep on one 
side of the head! To himself he said, 
“Whoever he is, he's a crafty rascal.” 

Now, other kings, less wise than Agi- 
lulf, might have put them all to the 
torture to force a confession from the 
guilty one. But Agilulf merely said to 
the assemblage: "He who did it, let 
him never do it again.” Then he dis- 
missed them. 

And although these words puzzled 
many, they made good sense to one 
among them. From that day forth, no- 
body entered the queen's bed but the 


king. 


ILLUSTRATED BY LEON BELLIN 


0 
e 
= 


LER 
; Э. SALIS 
‘alan 


“3 | Unmentionables 


EAT 


“Why Alice Abbott — 
whatever got into you?" 


THERE WAS A TIME when sex was un- 
mentionable in mixed company; the shady joke 
and suggestive story were confined to strictly 
masculine company. Not so today. Bedroom 
and bathroom humor аге apt-to put in an ap- 
pearance at the very nicest social gatherings— 
in fact, they've even made their way into the 
literature of the land. Several publishers are 
now offering whole books of sexy snickers. The 
best of the batch is titled Sextra Special; pub- 
lished by Scylla, Inc., it offers its humor in both 
words and pictures. Some of the funnier words 
appear in this month's Party Jokes section; our 
favorite pictures appear on this page. 


31 


PLAYBOY 


F AHRENHEIT 45] (continued from page 24) 


at all, with an anaestheuzed leg. A 
numbness in а numbness hollowed into 
a numbness. . . 

And now. . ? 

The street empty, the house burnt 
like an ancient bit of stage-scenery, the 
other homes dark, the Hound here, 
Beatty there, the three other firemen 
another place, and the Salamander. . ? 
He gazed at the immense engine. That 
would have to go, too. 

Well, he thought, let's see how badly 
off you are. On your feet now. Easy, 
easy. . . there. 

Пе stood and he had only one leg. 
The other was like a chunk of burnt 
pinelog he was carrying along as а 
penance for some obscure sin. When 
he put his weight on it, a shower of 
silver needles gushed up the length of 
the calf and went off in the knee, He 
wept. Come on! Come on, you, you 
can't stay here! 

A few house lights were going on 
again down the street, whether from 
the incidents just passed, or because of 
the abnormal silence following the 
fieht, Montag did not know. He hob- 
bled around the ruins, seizing at his 
bad leg when it lagged, talking and 
whimpering and shouting directions at 
it and cursing it and pleading with it 
to work for him now when it was vital. 
He heard a number of people crying 
out in the darkness and shouting. He 
reached the back yard and the alley. 
Beatty, he thought, you're not a prob- 
lem now. You always said, don't face 
a problem. burn it. Well, now I've 
done both, Good-by, Captain. 

And he stumbled along the alley in 
the dark. 

. . LI 

A shotgun blast went off in his leg 
every time he put it down and he 
thought, vou're a fool, a damn fool, an 
awful fool, an idiot, an awful idiot, a 
damn idiot, and a fool, a damn fool; 
look at the mess and where's the mop. 
look at the mess, and what do you do? 
Pride. damn it, and temper. and you've 
junked it all, at the very start you 
vomit on everyone and on yourself. 
But everything at once, but everything 
onc on top of another, Beatty, the 
women, Mildred, Clarisse, everything. 
No excuse, though, no excuse. A fool, 
a damn fool. go give yourself up! 

No, we'll save what we can, we'll do 
what there is left to do. If we have to 
burn, let's take а few more with us. 
Here! 

He remembered the books and 
turned back. Just on the off chance. 

He found a few books where he had 
left them, near the garden fence. Mil- 
dred, God bless her, had missed a few. 
Four books still lay hidden where he 
had put them. Voices were wailing in 
the night and flashbeams swirled about. 
Other Salamanders were roaring, their 
engines far away and police sirens were 
cutting their way across town with 


32 


their sirens. 

Montag took the four remaining 
books and hopped, jolted, hopped his 
wav down the alley and suddenly fell 
as if his head had been cut off and 
only his body lay there. Something 
inside had jerked him to a halt and 
flopped him down. He lay where he 
had fallen and sobbed, his legs folded, 
his face pressed blindly to the gravel. 

Beatty wanted to die. 

In the middle of the crying Montag 
knew it for the truth, Beatty had 
wanted to die. He had just stood there, 
not really trying to saye himself, just 
stood there, joking, needling, thought 
Montag, and the thought was enough 
to stifle his sobbing and let him pause 
for air. How strange, strange, to want 
to die so much that you let a man walk 
around armed and then instead of 
shutting up and staying alive, you go 
on yelling at people and making fun 
of them until you get them mad, and 
then... 

At a distance, running feet. 

Montag sat up. Let's get out of here. 
Come on, get up, get up, you just can't 
sit! But he was still crying and that 
had to be finished. It was going away 
now, He hadn't wanted to kill anyone. 
not even Beatty. His flesh gripped him 
and shrank as if it had been plunged 
in acid. He gagged. He saw Beatty, a 
torch, not moving, fluttering out on 
the grass. He bit at his knuckles. I'm 
sorry, I’m sorry, oh God, sorry. . . 

He tried to piece it all together, to 
go back to the normal pattern of life 
a few short days before the sieve and 
the sand, Denham's Dentifrice, moth- 
voices, fireflies, the alarms and excur- 
sions, too much for a few short days, 
too much, indeed, for a lifetime. 

Feet ran in the far end of the alley. 

"Get up!” he told himself. “Damn 
it, get up!" he said to the leg, and 
stood, The pains were spikes driven in 
the kneecap and then only darning 
needles and then only common ordi- 
narv safety pins, and after he had 
shagged along fifty more hops and 
jumps, filling his hand with slivers 
from the board fence, the prickling 
was like someone blowing a spray of 
scalding water on that leg. And the 
leg was at last his own leg again. He 
had been afraid that running might 
break the loose ankle. Now, sucking 
all the night into his open mouth and 
blowing it out pale, with all the black- 
ness left heavily inside himself, he set 
out in а steady jogging pace. He car- 
ried the books in his hands. 

He thought of Faber. 

Faber was back there in the steam- 
ing lump of tar that had по name or 
identity now. He had burnt Faber, too. 
He felt so suddenly shocked by this 
that he felt Faber was really dead, 
baked like a roach in that small green 
capsule shoved and Jost in the pocket 
ol a man who was now nothing but a 


(rame skeleton strung with asphalt 
tendons. 

You must remember, burn them or 
they'll burn you, he thought. Right 
now it's as simple as that. 

He searched his pockets, the money 
was there, and in his other pocket he 
found the usual Seashell upon which 
the city was talking to itself in the 
cold black morning. 

“Police Alert. Wanted: Fugitive m 
city. Has committed murder and crimes 
against the State. Name: Guy Montag. 
Occupation: Fireman. Last seen. . .” 

He ran steadily for six blocks, in the 
alley and then the alley opened out 
onto a wide empty thoroughfare ten 
lanes wide. It seemed like a boatless 
river frozen there in the raw light of 
the high white arclamps; you could 
drown trying to cross it, he felt; it was 
too wide, it was too open. It was а vast 
stage without scenery, inviting him to 
run across, easily seen in the blazing 
illumination, easily caught, easily shot 
down. 

The Seashell hummed in his ear. 

". . watch for а man running. . . 
watch for the running man. . «watch 
for a man alone, on foot. . мар...” 

Montag pulled back in the shadows. 
Directly ahead lay a gas station, a great 
chunk of porcelain snow shining there, 
and two silver beetles pulling in to fill 
up. Now he must be clean and pre- 
sentable if he wished to walk, not run, 
stroll calmly across that wide boule- 
vard. It would give him an extra mar- 
gin of safety if he washed up and 
combed his hair before he went on his 
way to get where. , ? 

Yes, he thought, where am 1 run- 
ning? 

Nowhere, There was nowhere to ро, 
no friend to turn to, really. Except 
Faber. And then he realized that he 
was, indeed, running toward Faber's 
house, instinctively, But Faber couldn't 
hide him; it would be suicide even to 
try. But he knew that he would ро to 
see Faber anyway, for а few short min- 
utes. Faber's would be the place where 
he might refuel his fast draining belief 
in his own ability to survive. He just 
wanted to know that there was a man 
like Faber in the world. He wanted to 
see the man alive and not burned back 
there like a body shelled in another 
body. And some of the money must be 
left with Faber, of course. to be spent 
after Montag ran on his way. Perhaps 
he could make the open country and 
live on or near the rivers and near the 
highways, in the fields and hills. 

A great whirling whisper made him 
look to the sky. 

The police helicopters were rising so 
far away that it seemed someone had 
blown the grey head off a dry dande- 
lion flower. Two dozen of them flur- 
ried, wavering, indecisive, three miles 
off, like butterflies puzzled by autumn, 
and then they were plummeting down 
to land, one by one, here, there, softly 
kneading the (continued on page 35) 


The couple stepped up to the 
desk clerk of one of the city’s 
nicer hotels. “I'd like a room 
and bath for my wife and my- 
self,” said the gentleman. 

“Em terribly sorry, sir," said 
the clerk, "but the only room 
available doesn't have bathroom 
facilities.” 

“Will that be all right with 
you, dear?” the gentleman asked 
the young lady at his side. 

“Sure, mister," she said. 


Here are a couple of salesman 
jokes worth a retelling: 

A big store buyer had been on 
the road for nearly two months, 
Each weck he would send his 
wife a telegram saying: "Can't 
come home yet. Still buying,” 

His wife knew that these buy- 
ing trips usually involved more 
than business. She tolerated this 
particular jaunt for a while, but 
when the third month rolled by 
and she'd still seen. nothing of 
her husband but the weekly tele- 
grams, she wired him: "Beuer 
come home. Um selling what 
you're buying." 


A salesman friend of ours spent 
a couple of days in Miami last 
fall. His first night there, a good 
looking blonde approached him 
in а bar and said, “I'm selling— 
you buying?” 

Our friend bought and thought 
no more about it till, a week 
later, he discovered he had a 
“case.” 

He visited a doctor and had it 
taken cure of, and two months 
later business again took him to 
Miami and again hé visited the 
same bar. Sure enough, ше 
same blonde was there, and once 
again she approached him with, 
"Im selling—you buying?" 

"Well, that depends," said our 
friend, sipping his drink thought- 
fully, “What are you selling to- 
night—cancer?" 


S ome girls go out every Saturday 
night and sow wild oats, then go 
to church on Sunday and pray 
for a crop failure. 


Little Mitchell hurt his finger 
and ran crying to his mother. 
She kissed it and said, “There, 
that will make it feel better.” 

А few minutes later, Mitchell 
scratched his forehead. His 
mother took care of the wound, 
then once more kissed the spot 
and sent her little man out to 
play. 

In half an hour Mitchell was 
back again. This time one of his 
friends had kicked him in a more 
intimate region; he came in 
screaming wildly and pointing to 
the spot. 

“Damn it,” said his mother, 
"you're getting more like your 
[ather every day." 


“Не: how," said the playboy, 
raising his glass. 

"Say when," said his date, “І 
know how!” 


The old maid bought herself a 
parrot to brighten her lonely 
hours. The parrots name was 
Bobby, and he was a charming 
bird, with but one small fault. 
Whenever the mild mannered 
lady had company in, Bobby 
would cut loose with a number 
of obscene expressions he'd pick- 
ed up from his previous owner, 
a retired. madame. 

The lady discussed this prob- 
lem with her pastor, and alter 
witnessing a particularly purple 
display, the good man suggested, 
“This parrot needs company. Get 
him interested in another of his 
species, and he'll soon forget his 
sinful past. 

"1, myself, have a parrot. Her 
name is Sarah and she is an un- 
usually devout bird. She prays 
constantly. Let me bring her 
with me the next time І call. 
We'll keep them together a lew 
days—I'm certain her religious 
background will have a marked 
influence on this fellow's char- 
acter.” 

Thus, the next time the pastor 
called, he brought his parrot, 
and the two birds were placed in 
a single cage. They spent the 
first couple of minutes hopping 
about and sizing onc-another up, 
then Bobby spoke: 

"I go for you, sweetie,” he 
whistled. “How about you and 
me shicking ир?!” 

"You betcha, big boy," said 
Sarah. “Whatcha think Гуе been 
praying for?!” 


You've undoubtedly heard 
about the top salaried movie di- 
rector who was always trying to 
make a little extra, 


A business friend was trying 10 
convince us the other day that 
sex is so popular because it's 
centrally located. 


PLAYBOY 


“No, Boy Scout Troop 38 can’t do us any 
good deeds today!” 


FAHRENHEIT 45] (continued from page 32) 


the streets where, turned back to 
beetles, they shricked along the boule- 
vards or, as suddenly, leapt back into 
the air, continuing their search. 

And here was the gas station, its 
attendants busy now with customers. 
Approaching from the rear, Montag 
entered the men’s wash room. 
Through the aluminum wall he heard 
a radio voice saying, "War has been 
declared." The gas was being pump- 
ed outside. The men in the beetles 
were talking and the attendants were 
talking about the engines, the gas, the 
money owed. Montag stood trying to 
make himself feel the shock of the 
quiet statement from the radio, but 
nothing would happen. The war 
would have to wait for him to come 
to it in his personal file, an hour, two 
hours from now. 

He washed his hands and face and 
toweled himself dry, making little 
sound, He came out of the washroom 
and shut the door carefully and walk- 
ed into the darkness and at last stood 
again on the edge of the empty boule- 
vard. 

There it lay, a game for him to win, 
a vast bowling alley in the cool morn- 
ing. The boulevard was as clean as 
the surface of an arena two minutes 
before the appearance of certain un- 
named victims and certain unknown 
killers. The air over and above the 
vast concrete river trembled with the 
warmth of Montag's body alone; it 
was incredible how he felt his temper- 
ature could cause the whole immed- 
iate world to vibrate. He was a phos- 
phorescent target; he knew it, he felt 
it And now he must begin his little 
walk. 

Three blocks away a few headlights 
glared. Montag drew a deep breath. 
His lungs were like burning brooms 
in his chest. His mouth was sucked 
dry from running. His throat tasted 
of bloody iron and there was rusted 
steel in his feet. 

What about those lights there? Once 
you started walking you'd have to 
gauge how fast those beetles could 
make it down here. Well, how far 
was it to the other curb? It seemed 
like а hundred yards. Probably not a 
hundred, but figure for that anyway, 
figure that with him going very slow- 
ly, at a nice stroll, it might take as 
much as thirty seconds, forty seconds 
to walk all that way. The beetles? 
Once started, they could leave three 
blocks behind them in about fifteen 
seconds. So, even if halfway across 
he started to run . . -? 

He put his right foot out and then 
his left foot and then. his right. He 
walked on the empty avenue. 

Even if the street were entirely 
empty, of course, you couldn't be sure 
of a safe crossing, for a car could ap- 
pear suddenly over the rise four blocks 
further on and be on and past you 
before you had taken a dozen breaths. 


He decided not to count his steps. 
He looked neither to left nor right. 
The light from the overhead lamps 
seemed as bright and revealing as the 
midday sun and just as hot. 

He listened to the sound of the car 
picking up speed two blocks away on 
his right. Its moveable headlights 
jerked back and forth suddenly, and 
caught at Montag. 

Keep going. 

Montag faltered, got a grip on the 
books, and forced himself not to freeze. 
Instinctively he took a few quick 
running steps then talked out loud 
to himself and pulled up to stroll 
again. He was now half across the 
street, but the roar from the beetle's 
engines whined higher as it put on 
speed. 

The police, of course. They see 
me. But slow now slow, quiet, don't 
turn, don't look, don't seem concern- 
ed. Walk, that's it, walk, walk. 

The beetle was rushing. The beetle 
was roaring. The beetle raised its 
speed. The beetle was whining. The 
beetle was in high thunder. The 
beetle came skimming. The beetle 
came in a single whistling trajectory, 
fired from an invisible rifle. It was 
up to 120 mph. It was up to 130 at 
least. Montag clamped his jaws. The 
heat of the racing headlights burnt his 
cheeks, it seemed, and jittered his eye- 
lids and flushed the sour sweat out 
all over his body. 

He began to shuttle idiotically and 
talk to himself and then he broke and 
just ran. He put out his legs as far 
as they would go and down and then 
far out again and down and back and 
out and down and back. God! God! 
He dropped a book, broke pace, al- 
most turned, changed his mind, plung- 
ed on, yelling in concrete emptiness, 
the beetle scuttling after its running 
food, two hundred, one hundred feet 
away, ninety, eighty, seventy, Montag 
gasping, flailing his hands, legs up 
down out, up down out, closer, closer, 
hooting, calling, his eyes burnt white 
now as his head jerked about to con- 
front the flashing glare, now the beetle 
was swallowed in its own light, now it 
was nothing but a torch hurtling upon 
him; all sound, all blare. Now — al- 
most on top of him! 

He stumbled and fell. 

I'm done! It’s over! 

But the falling made a difference. 
An instant before reaching him the 
wild beetle cut and swerved out. It 
was gone. Montag lay flat, his head 
down. Wisps of laughter trailed back 
to him with the blue exhaust from 
the beetle. 

His right hand was extended above 
him, flat. Across the extreme tip of 
his middle finger, he saw now as he 
lifted that hand, a faint sixteenth of 
an inch of black tread where the tire 
had touched in passing. He looked 
at that black line with disbelief, get- 


ting to his feet. 

That wasn’t the police, he thought. 

He looked down the boulevard. It 
was clear now. A carful of children, 
all ages, God knew, from twelve to 
sixteen, out whistling, yelling, hurrah- 
ing, had seen a man, a very extraord- 
inary sight, a man strolling, a rarity, 
and simply said, "Let's get him," not 
knowing he was the fugitive Mr. Mon- 
tag, simply a number of children out 
for a long night of roaring five or six 
hundred miles in a few moonlit hours, 
their faces icy with wind, and coming 
home or not coming at dawn, alive or 
not alive, that made the adventure. 

They would have killed me, thought 
Montag, swaying, the air still torn and 
stirring about him in dust, touching 
his bruised cheek. For no reason at 
all in the world they would have kill- 
ed me. 

He walked toward the far curb tell- 
ing each foot to go and keep going. 
Somehow he had picked up the spill- 
ed books, he didn't remember bend- 
ing or touching them. He kept mov- 
ing them from hand to hand as if they 
were a poker hand he could not fig- 
ure. 

I wonder if they were the ones who 
killed Clarisse? 

He stopped and his mind said it 
again, very loud. 

I wonder if they were the ones who 
killed Clarisse! 

He wanted to run after them yelling. 

His eyes watered. 

The thing that had saved him was 
faling flat. 'Ihe driver of the car, 
seeing Montag down, instinctively con- 
sidered the probability that running 
over a body at such a high speed might 
turn the car upside down and spill 
them out. If Montag had remained 
an upright target . . .? 

Montag gasped. 

Far down the boulevard, four blocks 
away, the beetle had slowed, spun 
about on two wheels, and was now 
racing back, slanting over on the 
wrong side of the street, picking up 
speed. 

But Montag was gone, hidden in 
the safety of the dark alley for which 
he had set out on a long journey, an 
hour, or was it a minute, ago? He 
stood shivering in the night, looking 
back out as the beetle ran by and skid- 
ded back to the center of the avenue, 
whirling laughter in the air all about 
it, gone. 

Further on, as Montag moved in 
darkness, he could see the helicopters 
falling falling like the first flakes of 
snow in the long winter to come... 

The house was silent. 

Montag approached from the rear, 
creeping through a thick night-mois- 
tened scent of daffodils and roses and 
wet grass. He touched the screen door 
in back, found it open, slipped in, 
moved across the porch, listening. 

Mrs. Black, are you asleep in there? 
he thought. This isn't good, but your 
husband did it to others and never 


35 


PLAYBOY 


asked and never wondered and never 
worried. And now since you're a 
fireman's wife, its your house and 
your turn, for all the houses your 
husband burned and the people he 
hurt without thinking. 

The house did not reply. Я 

He hid the books іп the kitchen 
and moved from the house again to 
the alley and looked back and the 
house was still dark and quiet, sleep- 
eos his way across town, with the 
fluttering like torn bits 
of paper in the sky, he phoned the 
alarm at a lonely phone booth outside 
a store that was closed for the night. 
Then he stood in the cold night air, 
waiting and at a distance he heard the 
fire sirens start up and run, and the 
Salamanders coming, coming to burn 
Mr. Black's house while he was away 
at work, to make his wife stand shiv- 
ering in the morning air while m: 
roof let go and dropped in upon the 
fire. But now, she was still asleep. 
Good night, Mrs. Black, he thought. 

“Faberl” К 

Another rap, AERE Аш А Jos 

aiting. Then, after a minute, а s 
light flickered inside Faber's small 
house. After another pause, the back 

т opened. 

тые, stood looking at each other 
in the half light, Faber and Montag, 
as if each did not believe in the other's 
existence. "Then Faber moved and 
put out his hand and grabbed Montag 
and moved him in and sat him down 
and went back and stood in the door, 
listening. The sirens were wailing off 
in the morning distance. He came 
in and shut the door. 

Montag said, “I've been a fool all 
down the line. I can't stay long. I'm 
on my way God knows where. 

“At least you were а fool about the 
right things,” said Faber. I thought 
you were dead. The audio-capsule 1 
gave you —" 

"Burnt." 

"I heard the captain talking to you 
and suddenly there was nothing. I 
almost came out looking for you. 

“The captain's dead. He found the 
audio-capsule, he heard your voice, he 
was going to trace it. I killed him 
with the flame-thrower." 

Faber sat down and did not speak 
for a time. 1 

"My God, how did this happen?” 
said Montag. "It was only the other 
night everything was fine and the next 
thing І know I'm drowning. How 
many times can a man go down and 
still be alive? I can't breathe. There's 
Beatty dead, and he was my friend 
once, and there's Millie gone, I 
thought she was my wife, but now I 
don't know. And the house all burnr. 
And my job gone and myself on the 
run, and I planted a book in a fire- 
man's house on the way. Good Christ, 
the things I've done in a single week!” 

“You did what you had to do. It 
was coming on for a long time." 


helicopters 


36 


"Yes, І believe that, if there's noth- 
ing else I believe. It saved itself up 
to happen. I could feel it for a long 
time, L was saving something up, І 
went around doing one thing and 
feeling another. God, it was all there. 
It's a wonder it didn't show on me, 


like fat. And now here I am, messing 
up your life, too. They might follow 
me here.” 


“I feel alive for the first time in 
years," said Faber. “І feel I'm doing 
what I should've done a lifetime ago. 
For a little while I'm not afraid. May- 
be its because I'm doing the right 
thing at last. Maybe it's because I've 
done a rash thing and don't want to 
look the coward to you. І suppose 
ГІ have to do even more violent 
things, exposing myself so I won't 
fall down on the job and turn scared 
again. What are your plans?" 

"To keep running." 

"You know the war's on?" 

“I heard." 

"God, isn't it funny?" said the old 
man. “It seems so remote because we 
have our own troubles.” 

“І haven't had time to think." Mon- 
tag drew out a hundred dollars. “І 
want this to stay with you, use it any 
way that'll help when I'm gone.” 

"But-" 

“I might be dead by noon; use this.” 

Faber nodded. "You'd better head 
for the river if you can, follow along 
it, and if you can hit the old railroad 
lines going out into the country, fol- 
low them. Even though practically 
everything's airborne these days and 
most of the tracks are abandoned, the 
rails are still there, rusting. I've heard 
there are still hobo camps all across 
the country, here and there; walking 
camps they call them, and if you keep 
walking far enough and keep an eye 
peeled, they say there's lots of old 
Harvard degrees on the tracks between 
here and Los Angeles. Most of them 
are wanted and hunted in the cities. 
They survive, І guess. There aren't 
many, and I guess the governments 
never considered them a great enough 
danger to go in and track them down. 
You might hole up with them for a 
time and get in touch with me in St. 
Louis, I’m leaving on the five A. M. 
bus this morning, to see a retired 
printer there, l'm getting out in the 
open myself, at last. This money will 
be put to good use. Thanks and God 
bless you. Do you want to sleep a 
few minutes?" 

"I'd better run." 

"Let's check." 

He took Montag quickly into the 
bedroom and lifted a picture frame 
aside revealing a television screen the 
size of a postal card. "I always wanted 
something very small, something I 
could walk to, something I could blot 
out with the palm of my hand, if 
necessary, nothing that could shout 
me down, nothing monstroas big. So, 
you see.” He snapped it on. 

"Montag," the TV set said, and lit 


up. "M-O-N-I-A-G." The name was 
spelled out by a voice. "Guy Montag. 
Sull running. Police helicopters are 
up. A new Mechanical Hound has 
been brought from another district —” 

Montag and Faber looked at each 
other. 

"—Mechanical Hound never fails. 
Never since its first usc in tracking 
quarry has this incredible invention 
made a mistake. Tonight, this net- 
work is proud to have the opportunity 
to follow the Hound by camera heli- 
copter as it starts on its way to the 
target—" 

Faber poured two glasses ol whis- 
key. “We'll need these." 

They drank. 

"—nose so sensitive the Mechanical 
Hound can remember and identify ten 
thousand odor indexes on ten thous- 
and men without re-setting!” 

Faber trembled the least bit and 
looked about at his house, at the walls, 
the door, the doorknob, and the chair 
where Montag now sat. Montag saw 
the look. They both looked quickly 
about the house and Montag felt his 
nostrils dilate and he knew that he 
was trying to track himself and his 
nose was suddenly good enough to 
sense the path he had made in the 
air of the room and the sweat of his 
hand hung from the doorknob, invis- 
ible but as numerous as the jewels 
of a small chandelier, he was суегу- 
where, in and on and about every- 
thing, he was a luminous cloud, a 
ghost that made breathing once more 
impossible. He saw Faber stop up 
his own breath for fear of drawing 
that ghost into his own body, perhaps, 
being contaminated with the phantom 
exhalations and odors of a running 
man. 

"Ihe Mechanical Hound is now 
landing by helicopter at the site of 
the Burning!” 

And there on the small screen was 
the burnt house, and the crowd and 
something with a sheet over it and out 
of the sky, fluttering, came the heli- 
copter like a grotesque flower. 

So they must have their game out, 
thought Montag. The circus must go 
on, even with war beginning within 
the hour . . . 

He watched the scene, fascinated, 
not wanting to move. It seemed so 
remote and no part of him; it was a 
play apart and separate, wondrous to 
watch, not without its strange pleas- 
ure. That's all for me, you thought, 
that's all taking place just for me, by 
God. 

If he wished, he could linger here, 
in comfort, and follow the entire hunt 
on through its swift phases, down al- 
leys, across streets, over empty run- 
ning avenues, crossing lots and play- 
grounds, with pauses here or there 
for the necessary commercials, up 
other alleys to the burning house of 
Mr. and Mrs. Black, and so on fin- 
ally to this house with Faber and him- 
self seated drinking while the Electric 


Hound snulled down the last trail, si- 
lent as a drift of death itself, skidding 
to a halt outside that window there. 
Then, if he wished, Montag might 
rise, walk to the window, keep one 
eye on the TV screen, open the win- 
dow, lean out, look back, and see him- 
self dramatized, described, made over, 
standing there, limned in the bright 
small television screen from outside, 
a drama to be watched objectively, 
knowing that in other parlors he was 
large as life, in full color, dimension- 
ally perfect! and if he kept his eye 
peeled quickly he would see himself, 
an instant before oblivion, being punc- 
tured for the benefit of how many 
civilian parlor-sitters who had been 
wakened from sleep a few minutes 
ago by the frantic sirening of their liv- 
ing room walls to come watch the big 
game, the hunt, the one-man carnival. 

Would he have time for a speech? 
As the Hound seized him, in view of 
ten or twenty or thirty million people, 
mightn't he sum up his entire life in 
the last week in one single phrase or 
a word that would stay with them long 
after the Hound had turned, clench- 
ing him in its metalplier jaws, and 
trotted off in darkness, while the cam- 
сга remained stationary, watching the 
creature dwindle in the distance, a 
splendid fade-out! What could he say 
in a single word, a few words, that 
would sear all their faces and wake 
them up? 

“There,” whispered Faber. 

Out of a helicopter glided some- 
thing that was not machine, not an- 
imal, not dead, not alive, glowing 
with a pale green luminosity. It 
stood near the smoking ruins of Mon- 
tag's house and the men brought his 
discarded flamethrower to it and put 
it down under «the muzzle of the 
Hound. There was a whirring, click- 
ing, humming. 

Montag shook his head and got up 
and drank the rest of his drink. “It’s 
time. Um sorry about this.” 

“About what? Me? My house? 1 
deserve everything. Run, for God's 


sake. Perhaps І can delay them here 

"Wait. There's no use you being 
discovered. When I leave, burn the 
spread of this bed, that І touched. 
Burn the chair in the living room, in 
your wall incinerator. Wipe down the 
furniture with alcohol, wipe the door- 
knobs. Burn the throw-rug in the par- 
lor. Turn the airconditioning on full 
in all the rooms and spray with moth 
spray if you have it. Then, turn on 
your lawn sprinklers as high as they'll 
go and hose off the sidewalks. With 
any luck at all, we can kill the trail 
in here, anyway." 

Faber shook his hand. “ГІІ tend to 
it. Good luck. If we're both in good 
health, next weck, the week after, get 
in touch, General Delivery, St. Louis. 
I'm sorry there's no way I can go with 
you this time, by ear-phone. That 
was good for both of us. But my 
equipment was limited. You see, І 
never thought I would use it. What 
a silly old man. No thought there. 
Stupid, stupid. So 1 haven't another 
green bullet, the right kind, to put in 
your head. Go now!” 

“One last thing. Quick. A suitcase, 
get it, fill ic with your dirtiest clothes, 
an old suit, the dirtier the better, a 
shirt, some old sneakers and socks .. .” 

Faber was gone and back in a min- 
ute. They sealed the cardboard valise 
with clear tape. “To keep the an- 
cient odor of Mr. Faber in, of course,” 
said Faber, sweating at the job. 

Montag doused the exterior of the 
valise with whiskey. “I don't want 
that Hound picking up two odors at 


once. May І take this whiskey? I'll 
need it later. Christ, 1 hope this 
works!” 


They shook hands again and going 
out the door glanced at the TV. The 
Hound was on its way, followed by 
hovering helicopter cameras, silently, 
silently, sniffing the great night wind. 
It was running down thc first alley. 

"Good-by!" 

And Montag was out the back door 
lightly, running with the half-empty 


valise. Behind him he heard the lawn 
sprinkling system jump up, filling the 
dark air with rain that fell gently and 
then with a steady pour all about, 
washing on the sidewalks and draining 
into the alley. He carried a few drops 
of this rain with him on his face. He 
thought he heard the old man call 
good-by, but he wasn't certain. 

He ran very fast away from the 
house, down toward the river. 

. . . 

Montag ran. 

He could feel the Hound, like au- 
tumn, come cold and dry and swilt, 
like a wind that didn't stir grass, that 
didn't jar windows or disturb leaf- 
shadows on the white sidewalks as it 

assed. The Hound did not touch 
the world. It carried its silence with 
it, so you could feel the silence build- 
ing up a pressure behind you all across 
town. Montag felt the pressure ris- 
ing, and ran. 

He stopped for breath, on his way 
to the river, to peer through dimly lit 
windows of wakened houses, and saw 
the silhouettes of people inside watch- 
ing their parlor walls and there on 
the walls the Mechanical Hound, a 
breath of neon vapor, spidered along, 
here and gone, here and gonel Now 
at Elm Terrace, Lincoln, Oak, Park, 
and up thc alley toward Faber's 
house! 

Go past, thought Montag, don't 
stop, go on, don't turn in! 

On the parlor wall, Faber's house, 
with its sprinkler system pulsing in 
the night air. 

The Hound paused, quivering. 

Nol Montag held to the window sill. 
This way! Here! 

The procaine needle flicked out and 
in, out and in. A single clear drop 
of the stuff of dreams fell from the 
needle as it vanished in the Hound's 
muzzle, 

Montag held his breath. 
doubled fist, in his chest. 

The Mechanical Hound turned and 
plunged away from Fabers house 


like a 


down the alley again. 


PLAYBOY 


Montag snapped his gaze to the 
sky. The helicopters were closer, a 
preat blowing of insects to a single 
light source. М 

With an effort, Montag reminded 
himself again that this was no fiction- 
al episode to be watched on his run 
to the river; it was in actuality his 
own chess game he was witnessing, 
move by move. 

He shouted to give himself the nec- 
essary push away from this last house 
window, and the fascinating seance 
going on in there! Hell! and he was 
away and gone! The alley, a street, 
the alley, a strect, and the smell of 
the river. Leg out, leg down, leg out 
and down. Twenty million Montags 
running, soon, if the cameras caught 
him. Twenty million Montags run- 
ning, running like an ancient flickery 
Keystone Comedy, cops, robbers, chas- 
ers and the chased, hunters and hunt- 
ed, he had seen it a thousand times. 
Behind him now twenty million silent- 
ly baying Hounds, ricocheted across 
parlors, three-cushion shooting from 
right wall to center wall to left wall, 
gone, right wall, center wall, left wall, 
gonel я Y 

Montag jammed his Seashell to his 
ear; 1 

"Police suggest entire population in 
the Elm Terrace area do as follows: 
Everyone in every house in every 
street open a front or rear door or 
look from the windows. The fugi- 
tive cannot escape if everyone in the 
next minute looks from his house. 
Ready!” 

Of course! Why hadn't they done 
it before! Why, in all the years, hadn't 
this game been tried! Everyone up, 
everyone out! He couldn't be missed! 
The only man running alone in the 
night city, the only man proving his 
legs! 
Ta the count of ten now! One! 
Two!” 

He felt the city rise. 

“Three!” 

He felt the city turn to its thous- 
ands of doors. 

Faster! Leg up, leg down! 

"Four!" 


The people sleepwalking in their 
hallways. 

"Fivel" 

He felt their hands on the door- 
knobs! 


The smell of the river was cool and 
like a solid rain. His throat was burnt 
rust and his eyes were wept dry with 
running. He yelled as if this yell 
would jet him on, fling him the last 
hundred yards. 

“Six, seven, eight!” 

The doorknobs turned on five 
thousand doors. 

“Nine!” 

He ran out away from the last row 
of houses, on a slope leading down to 
a solid moving blackness. 

“Теп!” 

The doors opened. 

He imagined thousands on thous- 


38 


ands of faces peering into yards, into 
alleys, and into the sky, faces hid by 
curtains, pale, night-frightened faces, 
like gray animals peering from electric 
caves, faces with gray colorless eyes, 
gray tongues and gray thoughts look- 
ing out through the numb flesh of the 
face. 

But he was at the river. 

He touched it, just to be sure it was 
real. He waded in and stripped in 
darkness to the skin, splashed his 
body, arms, legs, and head with raw 
liquor; drank it and snuffed some u 
his nose. Then he dressed іп Faber's 
old clothes and shoes. He tossed his 
own clothing into the river and watch- 
ed it swept away. Then, holding the 
suitcase, he walked out in the river 
until there was no bottom and he 
Was swept away in the dark. 

He was three hundred yards down- 
stream when the Hound reached the 
river. Overhead the great racketing 
fans of the helicopters hovered. A 
storm of light fell upon the river and 
Montag dived under the great illum- 
ination as if the sun had broken the 
clouds. He felt the river pull him 
further on its way, into darkness. 
Then the lights switched back to the 
land, the helicopters swerved over the 
city again, as if they had picked up 
another trail. They were gone. The 
Hound was gone. Now there was only 
the cold river and Montag floating in 
a sudden peacefulness, away from the 
city and the lights and the chase, 
away from everything. 

He felt as if he had left a stage be- 
hind and many actors. He felt as if 
he had left the great seance and all 
the murmuring ghosts. He was mov- 
ing from an unreality that was fright- 
ening into a reality that was unreal 
because it was new. 

The black land slid by and he was 
going into the country among the hills. 
For the first time in a dozen years 
the stars were coming out above him, 
in great processions of wheeling fire. 
He saw a great juggernaut of stars 
form in the sky and threaten to roll 
over and crush him. 

He floated on his back when the 
valise filled and sank; the river was 
mild and leisurely, going away from 
the people who ate shadows for break- 
fast and steam for lunch and vapors 
for supper. The river was very real; it 
held him comfortably and gave him 
the time at last, the leisure, to con- 
sider this month, this year, and a life- 
time of years. He listened to his 
heart slow. His thoughts stopped rush- 
ing with his blood. 

He saw the moon low in the sky 
now. The moon there, and the light 
of the moon caused by what? Ву the 
sun of course. And what lights the 
sun? Its own fire. And the sun goes 
on, day after day, burning and burn- 
ing. The sun and time. The sun 
and time burning. Burning. The 
river bobbled him along gently. Burn- 
ing. The sun and every clock on 


the earth. It all came together and 
became a single thing in his mind. 
After a long time of Tiosüps on the 
land and a short time of floating in 
the river he knew why he must never 
burn again in his life. 

The sun burned every day. It 
burned Time. The world rushed in 
a circle and turned on its axis and 
time was busy burning the years and 
the people anyway, without any help 
from him. So if he burnt things with 
the firemen and the sun burnt Time, 
that meant that everything burned! 

One of them had to stop burning. 
The sun wouldn't, certainly. So it 
looked as if it had to be Montag and 
the people he had worked with until 
a few short hours ago. Somewhere 
the saving and putting away had to 
begin again and somcone had to do 
the saving and keeping, one way or 
another, in books, in records, in 
people's heads, any way at all so long 
as it was safe, free from moths, silver- 
fish, rust and dry-rot, and men with 
matches. “The world was full of burn- 
ing of all types and sizes. Now the 
guild of the asbestos-weaver must open 
shop very soon. 

He felt his heel bump land, touch 
pebbles and rocks, scrape sand. The 
river had moved him toward shore. 

He looked in at the great black 
creature without eyes or light, with- 
out shape, with only a size that went 
a thousand miles, without wanting to 
stop, with its grass hills and forests 
that were waiting for him. 

He hesitated to leave the comforting 
flow of the water. He expected the 
Hound there. Suddenly the trees 
might blow under a great wind of hel- 
icopters. 

But there was only the normal au- 
tumn wind high up, going by like 
another river. Why wasn't the Hound 
running? Why had the search veered 
inland? Montag listened. Nothing. 
Nothing. 

Millie, he thought. All this coun- 
try here. Listen to it! Nothing and 
nothing. So much silence, Millie, І 
wonder how you'd take it? Would you 
shout Shut up, shut up! Millie, Millie. 
And he was sad. 

Millie was not here and the Hound 
was not here, but the dry smell of 
hay blowing from some distant field 

ut Montag on the land. He remem- 

ered a farm he had visited when he 

was very young, one of the rare few 
times he discovered that somewhere 
behind the seven veils of unreality, 
beyond the walls of parlors and be- 
yond the tin moat ob the city, cows 
chewed grass and pigs sat in warm 
ponds at noon and dogs barked after 
white sheep on a hill. 

Now, the dry smell of hay, the mo- 
tion of the waters, made him think 
of sleeping in fresh hay in a lonely 
barn away from the loud highways, 
behind a quiet farmhouse, and under 
an ancient windmill that whirred like 
the sound (continued on page 43) 


SURGERY 


Lejaren ’a Hillers unusual photographs portray its history and development 


Ww 


Hiller's recreation of a successful hysterectomy described by 
Giovanni Croce, a Venetian surgeon of the 16th Century. Three 
assistants held the writhing patient throughout the operation. 


39 


THERE SEEMS TO BE a marked agreement on what 
the world’s oldest profession is. The next oldest may pos- 
sibly be surgery. For when primitive men opened the 
skulls of demented comrades to release evil spirits—that 
was surgery. The history of the craft is long. It was 
recorded in the wall scratchings of cave dwellers and in 
ancient writings in every language, but few great artists 
have portrayed it pictorially. 4 

In the twenties, Davis and Geck, the world's largest pro- 
ducers of surgical sutures, determined to fill this gap by 
commissioning a series of photographs depicting the mile- 
The first complete Caesarean on record was performed in stones in the history of surgery. The man they picked for 
1610 by Jeremias Trautmann of Wittenberg. The mother the job was Lejaren "а Hiller. He began shooting the 
clutched the sheets in agony, but loter said the poin series in 1924 and is still working on it—adding three or 


four new pictures each year 
ive. Assi hand. FE buda cesse Auges : ee 
was not excessive. Assistant held her head and hand The collection is remarkable for its authenticity. Few 


drawings of early operations exist and Hiller has been 
forced to do considerable research for each new photo- 
graph. Costumes, instruments and surgical methods are 
all selected with the utmost carc; Hiller chooses models 
for their facial resemblance to the historical characters they 
are mcant to represent, and to get the best models he 
often picks people off the street. 

The series is no more remarkable than the man who 
has created it. Lejaren ‘a Hiller is a self-styled genius who 
has spent most of his life illustrating with the camera. 


Above, left: South American natives used large Sauba ants for closing wounds. The ant was permitted to bite through 
the edges of wound and, since its jaws retained their grip after death, the body was then pinched off. A raw of 
these ant heads formed a natural skin clip. Above, center: Convicted thieves lost their hands in the 16th Century; 
Bartolommeo Maggi learned much about amputation by crudely suturing their bloody stumps. Above, right: This 
Norse warrior demonstrates the characteristic hardiness which enabled early races to survive crude surgical practic- 
es. Receiving a severe abdominal wound in battle, he thrust his entrails back inside and continued fighting. Later his 
sister sewed him up with shoemaker's thread, and he recovered. On facing page: Hiller’s most famous photograph 
depicts victims of the bubonic plague being carried through the streets; plague killed 25,000,000 in the Middle Ages. 


40 


> > 
Laren è n 


He works in his Underwood and Underwood studio half 
the year, accepting whatever jobs most interest him, and 
spends the other half traveling ‘round the world. The 
Hiller house is filled with souvenirs of his journeys—in- 
cluding a mummy’s head on the mantle. 

“І bought the mummy near the Great Pyramid,” Hiller 
explains, "—Cheop's place. Paid about ten cents for it. 


I wanted to smuggle the whole thing out, but I knew I'd 
never get away with it. So 1 just wrenched the head off 
and stuck it in my bag.” 

Hiller recalls one experience in his career that fairly 
well illustrates the sort of unbelievable life he has led. 
He was sent down to Greenwich Village to photograph a 
man for an advertising testimonial. The man absolutely 


41 


Ambroise Pare (top) rose from humble origins to be- 
come surgeon to four kings of France. Famed as a 
humanitarian as well as a surgeon, he did much to 
reduce the pain and hazards of surgery. Lanfranchi 
(below) was first to differentiate between carcinoma 
and hypertrophy of breast. His straightforward lec- 
turing style attracted students by the hundreds. 


42 


Philip Physick developed early 
absorbable sutures from leather; 
later catgut was found superior. 


refused to have his picture taken, but since Hiller had 
come all that way for nothing, the man invited him in for 
a couple of drinks. After the couple, they had a couple 
more, and a couple more after that. The alcohol made 
them chummy and the man suggested they throw a party. 

"Why not,” said Hiller. “You call your friends and ГЇЇ 
call mine.” 

They had a party. 

Hiller's next recollection was noon the following day. 
He got to his feet, found his hat and coat, the door, and 
a taxicab. The cab took him home. 

In his apartment, he headed for the shower. Under the 
cool current, he thought of his hat, and removed it. This 
reminded him of his clothes, so he stepped out of the 
shower. Undressed, he glanced in the mirror and was sur- 
prised to note writing across his bare chest. He tried to 
read it, but it appeared backwards in the mirror and he 
was too tired to try and figure it out. He'd just crawled 
into bed when the phone rang. It was a friend from the 
party with some rather startling news. Their late host had 
put a gun in his mouth, after the party, and blown his 
head off. Returning from the phone, Hiller again thought 
of the writing on his chest. With the help of a second 
mirror to correct the reversed image in the first, he was 
able to read: "I hereby bequeath all my worldly posses- 
sions. . . " Hiller stopped reading. It was the last will 
and testament of the guy who'd blown his brains out— 
scrawled across Hiller's chest. 

Though Hiller has tackled a great many unusual pic 
ture assignments in his lifetime, he is best known for his 
photographic history of surgery. It has won him a num- 
ber of awards and world wide recognition. In the thirty 
years since its conception, no major error has been detected 
in the work. Some admirers, however, have questioned the 
master about the lack of clothing on his women models 
compared to the men, while undergoing similar opera- 
tions. They point particularly to the famous plague scene, 
where all the male victims are fully clothed and all the 
females are nude. То such questions, Hiller only smiles 
and says, “I prefer them that way.” 


PLAYBOY 


FAHRENHEIT 451 continued jrom page 46) 


rette in them, but that’s all.” 

Montag turned and glanced back. 

What did you give to the city, Mon- 
lage 

Ashes. 

What did the others give to each 
other? 

Nothingness. 

Granger stood looking back with 
Montag. "Everyone must leave some- 
thing behind when he dies, my grand- 
father said. А child or a book or a 
painting or a house or a wall built or 
à pair of shoes made. Or a garden 
planted. Something your hand touched 
some way so your soul has somewhere 
to go when you die, and when people 
look at that tree or that flower you 
planted, you're there. It doesn't matter 
what you do, he said, so long as you 
change something from the way it 
was before you touched it into some- 
thing that's like you after you take 
your hands away. The difference be- 
tween the man who just cuts lawns and 
a real gardener is in the touching, he 
said. The lawn-cutter might just as 
well not have been there at all; the 
gardener will be there a lifetime.” 

Granger moved his hand. “My 
grandfather showed me some V-2 
rocket films once, fifty years ago. Have 
you ever seen the atom-bomb mush- 
room from two hundred miles up? it's 
a pinprick, it's nothing. With the wild- 
erness all around it. 

"My grandfather ran off the V-2 
rocket film a dozen times and then 
hoped that some day our cities would 
open up more and let the green and 
the land and the wilderness in more, 
to remind people that we're allotted 
a little space on earth and that we 
survive in that wilderness that can 
take back what it has given, as easily 
as blowing its breath on us or sending 
the sea to tell us we are not so big. 
When we forget how close the wilder- 
ness is in the night, my grandpa said, 
some day it will come in and get us, 
for we will have forgotten how terrible 
and real it can be. You see?" Granger 
turned to Montag. “Grandfather's 
been dead for all these years, but if 
you lifted my skull, by God, in the 
convolutions of my brain you'd find 
the big ridges of his thumbprint. He 
touched me. As I said, earlier, he was 
a sculptor. 'I hate a Roman named 
Status Quo!’ he said to me. “Stuff your 
eyes with wonder, he said, 'live as if 
you'd drop dead in ten seconds. See 
the world. It's more fantastic than 
any dream made or paid for in fac- 
tories. Ask no guarantees, ask for no 
security, there never was such an ani- 
mal. And if there were, it would be 
related to the great sloth which hangs 
upside down in a tree all day every 
day, sleeping its life away. To hell with 
that, he said, 'shake the tree and 
knock the great sloth down on his 


ow 


ass. 


48 


"Look!" cried Montag. 

And the war began and ended in 
that instant. 

Later, the men around Montag 
could not say if they had really seen 
anything. Perhaps the merest flour- 
ish of light and motion in the sky. 
Perhaps the bombs were there, and the 
jets, ten miles, five miles, one mile up, 
for the merest instant, like grain 
thrown over the heavens by a great 
sowing hand, and the bombs drifting 
with dreadful swiftness, yet sudden- 
slowness, down upon the morning 
city they had left behind. The bomb- 
ardment was to all intents and pur- 
poses finished, once the jets had sight- 
ed their target, alerted their bomb- 
ardier at five thousand miles an hour; 
as quick as the whisper of a scythe the 
war was finished. Once the bomb-re- 
lease was yanked, it was over. Now, 
a full three seconds, all the time in his- 
tory, before the bombs struck, the 
enemy ships themselves were gone 
half around the visible world, like bul- 
lets in which a savage islander might 
not believe because they were in- 
visible; yet the heart is suddenly shat- 
tered, the body falls in separate mo- 
tions and the blood is astonished to be 
freed on the air; the brain squanders 
its few precious memories and, puz- 
леа, dies, 

This was not to be believed. It was 
merely a gesture. Montag saw the flirt 
of a great metal fist over the far city 
and he knew the scream of the jets 
that would follow, would say, after 
the deed, disintegrate, leave no stone 
on another, perish. Die. 

Montag held the bombs in the sky 
for a single moment, with his mind 
and his hands reaching helplessly up 
at them. "Run!" he cried to Faber. 
To Clarise, “Run!” To Mildred, 
“Get out, get out of there!” But Clar- 
isse, he remembered, was dead. And 
Faber was out; there in the deep 
valleys of the country somewhere the 
five A. M. bus was on its way from 
one desolauon to another. Though 
the desolation had not yet arrived, 
was still in the air, it was certain as 
man could make it. Before the bus had 
run another fifty yards on the high- 
way. its destination would be mean- 
ingles, and its point of departure 
changed from metropolis to junkyard. 

And Mildred. . . 

Get out, run! 

He saw her in her hotel room 
somewhere now in the half second re- 
maining with the bombs a yard, a foot, 
an inch from her building. He saw 
her leaning toward the great shim- 
mering walls of color and motion 
where the family talked and talked 
and talked to her, where the family 
prattled and chatted and said her 
name and smiled at her and said noth- 
ing of the bomb that was an inch, now 


a hallinch, now a quarter-inch trom 
the top of the hotel. Leaning into the 
wall as if all of the hunger of looking 
would find the secret of her sleepless 
unease there. Mildred, leaning anx- 
iously nervously, as if to plunge, drop, 
fall into that swarming immensity of 
color to drown in its bright happiness. 

The first bomb struck. 

“Mildred!” 

Perhaps, who would ever know? 
perhaps the great broadcasting sta- 
tions with their beams of color and 
light and talk and chatter went first 
into oblivion. 

Montag, falling flat, going down, 
saw or felt, or imagined he saw or felt 
the walls go dark in Millie's face, 
heard her screaming, because in the 
millionth part of time left, she saw 
her own face reflected there, in a mir- 
ror instead of a crystal ball, and it 
was such a wildly empty face, all by 
itself in the room, touching nothing, 
starved and eating of itself, that at 
last she recognized it as her own and 
looked quickly up at the ceiling as it 
and rhe entire structure of the hotel 
blasted down upon her, carrying her 
with a million pounds of brick, metal, 
plaster, and wood, to meet other 
people in the hives below, all on 
their quick way down to the cellar 
where the explosion rid itself of them 
in its own unreasonable way. 

I remember. Montag clung to the 
earth. I remember. Chicago. Chicago 
а long time ago. Millie and І. That's 
where we met! I remember now. Chi- 
cago. A long time ago. 

The concussion knocked the air 
across and down the river, turned the 
men over like dominos in a line, blew 
the water in lifting sprays, and blew 
the dust and made the trees above 
them mourn with great wind passing 
away south. Montag crushed himself 
down, squeezing himself small, eyes 
tight. He blinked once. And in that 
instant saw the city, instead of the 
bombs, in the air. They had displaced 
each other. For another of those im- 

ossible instants the city stood, re- 
built and unrecognizable, taller than 
it had ever hoped or strived to be, 
taller than man had built it, erected 
at last in gouts of shattered concrete 
and sparkles of torn metal into a mural 
hung like a reversed avalanche, a mil- 
lion colors, a million oddities, a door 
where a window should be, a top for 
a bottom, a side for a back, and then 
the city rolled over and fell down 
dead. 

The sound of its death came after. 

Montag, lying there, eyes gritted 
shut with dust, a fine wet cement of 
dust in his now shut mouth, gasping 
and crying, now thought again. I re- 
member, І remember, I remember 
something else. What is it? Yes, yes, 
part of Ecclesiastes. Part of Ecclesiastes 
and Revelation. Part of that book, 
part of it, quick, before it gets away, 
before the shock wears off, before the 


PLAYBOY 


called to Montag: 

“All right, you can come out now!” 

Montag stepped back in the shad- 
ows. 

“It’s all right,” the voice 
"You're welcome here." 

Montag walked slowly toward the 
fire and the five old men sitting there 
dressed in dark blue denim pants and 
jackets and dark blue shirts. He did 
not know what to say to them. 

“Sit down," said the man who 
seemed to be the leader of the small 
group. "Have some coffee?" 

He watched the dark steaming mix- 
ture pour into a collapsible tin cup, 
which was handed him straight off. 
He sipped it gingerly and felt them 
looking at him with curiosity. Ніз lips 
were scalded, but that was good. The 
faces around him were bearded, but 
the beards were clean, neat and their 
hands were clean. They had stood up 
as if to welcome a guest, and now they 


said. 


sat down again. Montag sipped. 
“Thai 25," he said. “Thanks very 
much." 

"You're welcome, Montag. My 


пате» Granger." He held out a small 
bottle of colorless fluid. “Drink this, 


too. It'll change the chemical index 
of your perspiration. Half an hour 
from now you'l smell like two other 
people. With the Hound after you, 
the best thing is Bottoms up." 

Montag drank the bitter fluid. 

“You'll stink like a bobcat, but 
that’s all right,” said Granger. 

"You know my name,” said Montag. 

Granger nodded to a portable bat- 
tery ТУ set by the fire. “We've 
watched the chase. Figured you'd wind 
up south along the river. When we 
heard you plunging around out in the 
forest like a drunken elk, we didn’t 
hide as we usually do. We figured 
you were in the river, when the heli- 
copter cameras swung back in over 
the city. Something funny there. The 
chase is still running. The other 
way, though.” 

"Ihe other way?" 

"Let's have a look.” 

Granger snapped the portable view- 
cr on. The picture was a nightmare. 
condensed, casily passed from hand 
to hand, in the forest, all whirring 
color and flight. A voice cried: 

“The chase continues north in thc 
city! Police helicopters аге converg- 


ing on Avenue 87 and Elm Grove 
Park!” 

Granger nodded. “They're faking. 
you threw them off at the river. They 
can’t admit it. They know they can 
hold their audience only so long. The 
show's got to have a snap ending, 
quick! If they started searching thc 
whole damn river it might take all 
night. So they're sniffing for a scape- 
goat to end things with a bang. Watch. 
They'll catch Montag in the next five 
minutes!" 

"But how—" 

"Watch." 

The camera, hovering in the belly 
of a helicopter, now swung down at 
an empty street. 

"Sce that?” whispered Granger. 
"I'll be you; right up at the end of 
that street is our victim, See how our 
camcra is coming in? Building thc 
scene. Suspense. Long shot. Right 
now, some poor fellow is out for a 
walk. A rarity. An odd one. Don't 
think the police don't know the habits 
of queer ducks like that, men who 
walk mornings for the hell of it, or 
for reasons of insomnia. Anyway, thc 


“My psychiatrist finally hit on it. I'm an introvert.” 


44 


police have had him charted for 
months, years. Never know when that 
sort of information might be handy. 
And today, it turns out, it's very us- 
able indeed. It saves face. Oh, God, 
look there!" 

The men at the fire bent forwartl. 

On the screen, a man turned a cor 
ner. The Mechanical Hound rushed 
forward into the viewer, suddenly. 
The helicopter lights shot down a 
dozen brilliant pillars that built a 
cage all about the man. 

A voice cried, “There's Montag! The 
search is done!” 

The innocent man stood bewild- 
ered, a cigarette burning in his hand. 
He stared at the Hound, not know 
ing what it was. He probably never 
knew. He glanced up at the sky and 
the wailing sirens. The camera rushed 
down. The Hound leapt up into thc 
air with a rhythm and a sense of tim- 
ing that was incredibly beautiful. Its 
needle shot out. It was suspended for 
a moment in their gaze, as if to give 
the vast audience time to appreciate 
everything, the raw look of the vic 
tim's face, the empty street, the steel 
animal a bullet nosing the target. 

"Montag, don't move!" said a voice 
from the sky. 

The camera fell upon the victim, 
even as did the Hound. Both reached 
him simultaneously. The victim was 
seized by Hound and camera in a 
great spidering, clenching grip. He 
screamed. He screamed. He screamed! 

Blackout. 

Silence. 

Darkness. 

Montag cried out in the silence 
and turned away. 

Silence. 

And then, after a time of the men 
sitting around the fire, their faces 
expressionless, an announcer on the 
dark screen said, “The search is over, 
Montag is dead; a crime against society 
has been avenged.” 

Darkness. 

“We now take you to the Sky Room 
of the Hotel Lux for a half hour of 
Just-Before-Dawn, a program of—" 

Granger turned it off. 

“They didn't show the man's face in 
focus. Did you notice? Even your best 
friends couldn't tell if it was you. 
They scrambled it just enough to let 
the imagination take over. Hell," he 
whispered. “Hell.” 

Montag said nothing but now, look- 
ing back, sat with his eyes fixed to the 
blank screen, trembling. 

Granger touched Montag's arm. 
“Welcome back from the dead.” Mon- 
tag nodded. Granger went оп. “You 
might as well know all of us, now. 
This is Fred Clement, former occu- 
pant of the Thomas Hardy chair at 
Cambridge in the years before it be- 
came an Atomic Engineering School. 
This other is Dr. Simmons from U. C. 
L. A., a specialist in Ortega y Gasset; 
Profesor West here did quite a bit 


УД 


"Hey, Joe—the cost of living's dropped 30c a fifth." 


for ethics, an ancient study now, for 
Columbia University quite some years 
ago. Reverend Padover here gave a 
few lectures thirty years ago and lost 
his flock between one Sunday and the 
next for his views. He's been bum- 
ming with us some time now. Myself: 
I wrote a book called The Fingers in 
the Glove; the Proper Relationship 
between the Individual and Society, 
and here I am! Welcome, Montag!" 

"I don't belong with you," said Mon- 
tag, at last, slowly. "I've been an idiot 
all the way." 

"We're used to that. We all made 
the right kind of mistakes, or we 
wouldn't be here. When we were sep- 
arate individuals, all we had was rage. 
I struck a fireman when he came to 
burn my library years ago. I've been 
running ever since. You want to join 
us, Montag?” 

"Yes." 

“What have you to offer?” 

“Nothing. І thought I had part of 
the Book of Ecclesiastes and maybe а 
little of Revelation, but I haven't even 
that. now." 

“The Book of Ecclesiastes would be 
line. Where was it?" 

"Here," Montag touched his head. 

"Ah," Granger smiled and nodded. 

“What's wrong? Isn't that all right?" 
said Montag. 

“Better than all right; perfect!” 
Granger turned to the Reverend. “Do 
we have a Book of Ecclesiastes?” 

“One. A man named Harris in 
Youngstown.” 

"Montag." Granger took Montag's 
shoulder firmly. “Walk carefully. 
Guard your health. If anything should 
happen to Harris, you are the Book of 
Ecclesiastes. See how important you've 


become in the last minute!" 

"But Гуе forgotten!” 

"No, nothing's ever lost. We have 
ways to shake down your clinkers for 

ou.” 
y "But I've tried to remember!" 

"Don't try. It'll come when we 
need it. All of us have photographic 
memories, but spend a lifetime learn- 
ing how to block off the things that 
are really in there. Simmons here has 
worked on it for twenty years and now 
we've got the method down to where 
we can recall anything that's been read 
once. Would you like, some day, Mon- 
tag, to read Plato's Republic?" 

"Of course!" 

“J am Plato's Republic. Like to read 
Marcus Aurelius? Mr. Simmons is 
Marcus." 

"How do you do?” said Mr. Sim- 
mons. 

"Hello," said Montag. 

"I want you to meet Jonathan Swift, 
the author of the evil political book, 
Gulliver's Travels! And this other fel- 
low is Charles Darwin, and this one is 
Schopenhauer, and this one is Ein- 
stein, and this one here at my elbow 
is Mr. Albert Schweitzer, a very kind 
philosopher indeed. Here we all are, 
Montag. Aristophanes and Mahatma 
Gandhi and Gautama Buddha and 
Confucious and Thomas Love Peacock 
and Thomas Jefferson and Mr. Lin- 
coln, if you please. We are also Matth- 
ew, Mark, Luke, and John.” 

Everyone laughed quietly. 

"It can't be," said Montag. 

“It as," replied Granger, smiling. 
“We're book-burners, too. We read the 
books and burnt them, afraid they'd 
be found. Micro-filming didn’t pay 
off; we were always traveling, we 


45 


PLAYBOY 


didn’t want to bury the film and come 
back later. Always the chance of dis- 
covery. Better to keep it in the old 
heads, where no one can see it or sus- 

ct it. We are all bits and pieces of 

istory and literature and internation- 
al law, Byron, Tom Paine, Machiavelli 
or Christ, it’s here. And the hour's 
late. And the war's begun. And we are 
out here, and the city is there, all 
wrapped up in its own coat of a thou- 
sand colors. What do you think, Mon- 
tag?" 

"I think I was blind trying to go at 
things my way, planting books in 
firemen's houses and sending in 
alarms." 

"You did what you had to do. 
Carried out on a national scale, it 
might have worked beautifully. But 
our way is simpler and, we think, bet- 
ter. All we want to do is keep the 
knowledge we think we will need, in- 
tact and safe. We're not out to incite 
or anger anyone yet. For if we are 
destroyed, the knowledge is dead, per- 
haps for good. We are model citizens, 
in our own special way; we walk the 
old tracks, we lie in the hills at night, 
and the city people let us be. We're 
stopped and searched occasionally, but 
there's nothing on our person to in- 
ciminate us. The organization is 
flexible, very loose, and fragmentary. 
Some of us have had plastic surgery on 
our faces and fingerprints. Right. now 
we have a horrible job; we're waiting 
for the war to begin and, as quickly, 
end. It's not pleasant but then we're 
not in control, we're the odd minority 
crying in the wilderness. When the 
war's over, perhaps we can be of some 
use in the world." 

"Do you really think they'll listen 
then?" 

"If not, we'll just have to wait. We'll 
pass the books on to our children, 
by word of mouth, and let our child- 
ren wait, in turn, on the other people. 
A lot will be lost that way, of course. 
But you can't make people listen. 
They have to come round in their 
own time, wondering what happened 
and why the world blew up under 
them. It can't last." 

"How many of you are there?" 

“Thousands on the roads, the aban- 
doned railtracks, tonight, bums on the 
outside, libraries inside. It wasn't 
planned, at first. Each man had a 
book he wanted to remember, and did. 
"Then, over a period of twenty years 
or so, we met each other, traveling, 
and got the loose network together 
and set out a plan. The most important 
single thing we had to pound into 
ourselves is that we were not import- 
ant, we mustn't be pedants; we were 
not to feel superior to anyone else in 
the world. We're nothing more than 
dustjackets for books, of no signi- 
ficance otherwise, Some of us live in 
small towns. Chapter One of Tho- 
reau's Walden in Green River, Chap- 


46 


ter Two in Willow Farm, Maine. Why, 
there's one town in Maryland, only 
twenty-seven people, no bomb'll ever 
touch that town, is the complete essays 
of a man named Bertrand Russell. 
Pick up that town, almost, and flip the 
pages, so many pages to a person. And 
when the war's over, some day, some 
year, the books can be written again, 
the people will be called in, one by 
one, to recite what they know and 
we'll set it up in type until another 
Dark Age, when we might have to do 
the whole damn thing over again. 
But that's the wonderful thing about 
man; he never gets so discouraged or 
disgusted that he gives up doing it all 
over again, because he knows very 
well it is important and worth the 
doing." 

"What do we do tonight?' asked 
Montag. 

"Wait, said Granger. "And move 
downstream a little ways, just in case." 

He began throwing dust and dirt in 
the fire. 

The other men helped, and Montag 
helped, and there, in the wilderness, 
the men all moved their hands, put- 
ting out the fire together. 


They stood by the river in the star- 
light. 

Montag saw the luminous dial of his 
waterproof. Five. Five o'clock in the 
morning. Another year ticked by in 
a single hour, and dawn waiting be- 
yond the far bank of the river. 

"Why do you trust me?" said Mon- 
tag. 

A man moved in the darkness. 

"The look of you' enough. You 
haven't seen yourself in a mirror late- 
ly. Beyond that, the city has never 
cared so much about us to bother with 
an elaborate chase like this to find 
us. A few crackpots with verses in their 
heads can't touch them, and they know 
it and we know it; everyone knows 
it. So long as the vast population 
doesn't wander about quoting the 
Magna Charta and the Constitution, 
its all right. The firemen were en- 
ough to check that, now and then. 
No, the cities don't bother us. And 
you look like hell." 

They moved along the bank of the 
river, going south. Montag tried to 
see the men's faces, the old faces he 
remembered from the firelight, lined 
and tired. He was looking for a bright- 
ness, a resolve, a triumph over to- 
morrow that hardly seemed to be 
there. Perhaps he had expected their 
faces to burn and glitter with the 
knowledge they carried, to glow as 
lanterns glow, with the light in them. 
But all the light had come from the 
campfire, and these men had scemed 
no different than any others who had 
run a long race, searched a long 
search, seen good things destroyed, and 
now, very late, were gathered to wait 
for the end of the party and the blow- 
ing out of the lamps. They weren't 


at all certain that the things they car- 
ried in their heads might make every 
future dawn glow with a purer light, 
they were sure of nothing save that 
the books were on file behind their 
quiet eyes, the books were waiting, 
with their pages uncut, for the cus- 
tomers who might come by in later 
years, some with clean and some with 
dirty fingers. 

Montag squinted from one face to 
another as they walked. 

"Don't judge a book by its cover," 
someone said. 

And they all laughed quietly, mov- 
ing downstream. 


There was a shriek and the jets from 
the city were gone overhead long 
before the men looked up. Montag 
stared back at the city, far down the 
river, only a faint glow now. 

"My wife's back there." 

“Um sorry to hear that. The cities 
won't do well in the next few days," 
said Granger, 

“It's strange. I don't miss her, it's 
strange I don't feel much of anything," 
said Montag. "Even if she dies, I real- 
ized a moment аро, I don't think I'll 
feel sad. It isn't right. Something must 
be wrong with me." 

“Listen,” said Granger, taking his 
arm, and walking with him, holding 
aside the bushes to let him pass, 
"When I was a boy my grandfather 
died, and he was a sculptor. He was 
also a very kind man who had a lot 
of love to give the world, and he 
helped clean up the slum in our 
town; and he made toys for us and 
he did a million things in his life- 
time; he was always busy with his 
hands. And when he died, I suddenly 
realized I wasn't crying for him at all, 
but for all the things he did. I cried 
because he would never do them 
again, he would never carve another 
piece of wood or help us raise doves 
and pigeons in the back yard or play 
the violin the way he did, or tell us 
jokes the way he did. He was part of 
us and when he died, all the actions 
stopped dead and there was no one 
to do them just the way he did. He 
was individual. He was an import- 
ant man. I've never gotten over his 
death. Often I think, what wonderful 
carvings never came to birth because 
he died. How many jokes are missing 
from the world, and how many hom- 
ing pigeons untouched by his hands. 
He shaped the world. He did things 
to the world. The world was bank- 
rupted of ten million fine actions the 
night he passed on." 

Montag walked in silence. "Millie, 
Millie,” he whispered. “Millie.” 

"What?" 

"My wife, my wife. Poor Millie, 
poor, poor Millie. I can't remember 
anything. I think of her hands but I 
don't see them doing anything at all. 
They just hang there at her sides or 
they lie on her lap or there's a ciga- 


PLAYBOY 


FAHRENHEIT 45] (continued from page 46) 


rette in them, but that's all.” 

Montag turned and glanced back. 

What did you give to the city, Mon- 
tag? 

Ashes. 

What did the others give to each 
other? 

Nothingness. 

Granger stood looking back with 
Montag. "Everyone must leave some- 
thing behind when he dies, my grand- 
father said. A child or a book or a 
painting or a house or a wall built or 
a:pair of shoes made. Or a garden 
planted. Something your hand touched 
some way so your soul has somewhere 
to go when you die, and when people 
look at that tree or that flower you 
planted, you're there. It doesn't matter 
what you do, he said, so long as you 
change something from the way it 
was before you touched it into some- 
thing that’s like you after you take 
your hands away. The difference be- 
tween the man who just cuts lawns and 
a real gardener is in the touching, he 
said. The lawn-cutter might just as 
well not have been there at all; the 
gardener will be there a lifetime." 

Granger moved his hand. "My 
grandfather showed me some V-2 
rocket films once, fifty years ago. Have 
you ever seen the atom-bomb mush- 
room from two hundred miles up? it's 
à pinprick, it's nothing. With the wild- 
erness all around it. 

"My grandfather ran off the V-2 
rocket film a dozen times and then 
hoped that some day our cities would 
open up more and let the green and 
the land and the wilderness in more, 
to remind people that we're allotted 
a little space on earth and that we 
survive in that wilderness that can 
take back what it has given, as easily 
as blowing its breath on us or sending 
the sea to tell us we are not so big. 
When we forget how close the wilder- 
ness is jn the night, my grandpa said, 
some day it will come in and get us, 
for we will have forgotten how terrible 
and real it can be. You see?" Granger 
turned to Montag. "Grandfather's 
been dead for all these years, but if 
you lifted my skull, by God, in the 
convolutions of my brain you'd find 
the big ridges of his thumbprint. He 
touched me. As I said, earlier, he was 
a sculptor. ‘I hate a Roman named 
Status Quo!” he said to me. ‘Stuff your 
eyes with wonder,’ he said, ‘live as if 
you'd drop dead in ten seconds. See 
the world. Its more fantastic than 
any dream made or paid for in fac- 
tories. Ask no guarantees, ask for no 
security, there never was such an ani- 
mal. And if there were, it would be 
related to the great sloth which hangs 
upside down in a tree all day every 
day, sleeping its life away. To hell with 
that, he said, 'shake the tree and 
knock the great sloth down on his 
ass” " 


48 


"Lookl" cried Montag. 

And the war began and ended in 
that instant. 

Later, the men around Montag 
could not say if they had really seen 
anything. Perhaps the merest flour- 
ish of light and motion in the sky. 
Perhaps the bombs were there, and the 
jets, ten miles, five miles, one mile up, 
for the merest instant, like grain 
thrown over the heavens by a great 
sowing hand, and the bombs drifting 
with dreadful swiftness, yet sudden- 
slowness, down upon the morning 
city they had left behind. The bomb- 
ardment was to all intents and pur- 
poses finished, once the jets had sight- 
ed their target, alerted their bornb- 
ardier at five thousand miles an hour; 
as quick as the whisper of a scythe the 
war was finished. Once the bomb-re- 
lease was yanked, it was over. Now, 
a full three seconds, all the time in his- 
tory, before the bombs struck, the 
enemy ships themselves were gone 
half around the visible world, like bul- 
lets in which a savage islander might 
not believe because they were in- 
visible; yet the heart is suddenly shat- 
tered, the body falls in separate mo- 
tions and the blood is astonished to be 
freed on the air; the brain squanders 
its few precious memories and, puz- 
zled, dics. 

This was not to be believed. It was 
merely a gesture. Montag saw the flirt 
of a great metal fist over the far city 
and he knew the scream of the jets 
that would follow, would say, after 
the deed, disintegrate, leave no stone 
on another, perish. Die. 

Montag held the bombs in the sky 
for a single moment, with his mind 
and his hands reaching helplessly up 
at them. “Run!” he cried to Faber. 
To Clarisse, “Run!” To Mildred, 
“Get out, get out of there!” But Clar- 
isse, he remembered, was dead. And 
Faber was out; there in the decp 
valleys of the country somewhere the 
five A. M. bus was on its way from 
one desolation to another. Though 
the desolation had not yet arrived, 
was still in the air, it was certain as 
man could make it. Before the bus had 
run another fifty yards on the high- 
way, its destination would be mean- 
ingless, and its point of departure 
changed from metropolis to junkyard. 

And Mildred. . . 

Get out, run! 

He saw her in her hotel room 
somewhere now in the half second re- 
maining with the bombs a yard, a foot, 
an inch from her building. He saw 
her leaning toward the great shim- 
mering walls of color and motion 
where the family talked and talked 
and talked to her, where the family 
prattled and chatted and said her 
name and smiled at her and said noth- 
ing of the bomb that was an inch, now 


a half-inch, now a quarter-inch from 
the top of the hotel. Leaning into the 
wall as if all of the hunger of looking 
would find the secret of her sleepless 
unease there. Mildred, leaning anx- 
iously nervously, as if to plunge, drop, 
fall into that swarming immensity of 
color to drown in its bright happiness. 

The first bomb struck. 

“Mildred!” 

Perhaps, who would ever know? 
perhaps the great broadcasting sta- 
tions with their beams of color and 
light and talk and chatter went first 
into oblivion. 

Montag, falling flat, going down, 
saw or felt, or imagined he saw or felt 
the walls go dark in Millie's face, 
heard her screaming, because in the 
millionth part of time left, she saw 
her own face reflected there, in а mir- 
ror instead of a crystal ball, and it 
was such a wildly empty face, all by 
itself in the room, touching nothing, 
starved and eating of itself, that at 
last she recognized it as her own and 
looked quickly up at the ceiling as it 
and the entire structure of the hotel 
blasted down upon her, carrying her 
with a million pounds of brick, metal, 
plaster, and wood, to meet other 
people in the hives below, all on 
their quick way down to the cellar 
where the explosion rid itself of them 
in its own unreasonable way. 

І remember. Montag clung to the 
earth. I remember. Chicago. Chicago 
a long time ago. Millie and I. That's 
where we met! І remember now. Chi- 
cago. A long time ago. 

The concussion knocked the air 
across and down the river, turned the 
men over like dominos in a line, blew 
the water in lifting sprays, and blew 
the dust and made the trees above 
them mourn with great wind passing 
away south. Montag crushed himself 
down, squeezing himself small, eyes 
tight. He blinked once. And in that 
instant saw the city, instead of the 
bombs, in the air. They had displaced 
each other. For another of those im- 
posto instants the city stood, re- 

uilt and unrecognizable, taller than 
it had ever hoped or strived to be, 
taller than man had built it, erected 
at last in gouts of shattered concrete 
and sparkles of torn metal into a mural 
hung like a reversed avalanche, a mil- 
lion colors, a million oddities, a door 
where a window should be, a top for 
a bottom, a side for a back, and then 
the city rolled over and fell down 
dead. 

The sound of its death came after. 

Montag, lying there, eyes gritted 
shut with dust, a fine wet cement of 
dust in his now shut mouth, gasping 
and crying, now thought again. I re- 
member, І remember, І remember 
something else. What is it? Yes, yes, 
part of Ecclesiastes. Part of Ecclesiastes 
and Revelation. Part of that book, 
part of it, quick, before it gets away, 
before the shock wears off, before the 


wind dies. Book of Ecclesiastes. Here. 
He said it over to himself silently, ly- 
ing flat to the trembling earth, he said 
the words of it many times and they 
were perfect without trying and there 
was no Denham's Dentrifice anywhere, 
it was just the Preacher by himself, 
standing there in his mind, looking 
at йш c 

“There,” said a voice. 

The men lay gasping like fish laid 
out on the grass. They held to the 
earth as children hold to familiar 
things, no matter how cold or dead, no 
matter what has happened or will hap- 
pen, their fingers were clawed into the 
dirt, and they were all shouting to 
keep their eardrums from bursting, to 
keep their sanity from bursting, 
mouths open, Montag shouting with 
them, a protest against the wind that 
ripped their faces and tore at their 
lips, making their noses bleed. 

Montag watched the great dust set- 
tle and the great silence move down 
upon their world. And lying there it 
seemed that he saw every single 
grain of dust and every blade of grass 
and that he heard every cry and shout 
and whisper going up in the world 


now. Silence fell down in the sifting 
dust, and all the leisure they might 
need to look around, to gather the 
reality of this day into their senses. 

Montag looked at the river. We'll go 
on the river. He looked at the old 
railroad tracks. Or we'll go that way. 
Or we'll walk on the highways now, 
and we'll have time to put things into 
ourselves. And some day, after it sets 
in us a long time, it'll come out our 
hands and mouths. And a lot of it will 
be wrong, but just enough of it will 
be right. We'll just start walking to- 
day and see the world and the way the 
world walks around and talks, the way 
it really looks. I want to see every- 
thing now. And while none of it will 
be me when it goes in, after awhile 
itll all gather together inside and 
itll be me. Look at the world out 
there, my God, my God, look at it out 
there, outside me, out there beyond 
my face and the only way to really 
touch it is to put it where it's finally 
me, where it's in the blood, where it 
pumps around a thousand times ten 
thousand a day. I get hold of it so 
itll never run off. I'll hold onto the 
world tight some day. I've got one 


finger on it now; that's a beginning. 

The wind died. 

The other men lay awhile, on the 
dawn edge of sleep, not yet ready 
to rise up and begin the day's obliga- 
tions, its fires and foods, its thou- 
sand details of putting foot after foot 
and hand after hand. They lay blink- 
ing their dusty eyelids. You could hear 
them breathing fast, then slower, then 
slow... 

Montag sat up. 

He did not move any farther, how- 
ever. The other men did likewise. 
The sun was touching the black hori- 
zon with a faint red tip. The air was 
cold and smelled of a coming rain. 

Silently, Granger arose, felt of his 
arms and legs, swearing, swearing in- 
cessantly under his breath, tears drip- 
ping from his face. He shuffled down 
to the river to look upstream. 

"It's flat,” he said, a long time later. 
“City looks like a heap of baking pow- 
der. It's gone." And a long time after 
that. "I wonder how many knew it was 
coming? I wonder how many were 
surprised?" 

And across the world, thought Mon- 
tag, how many other cities dead? And 


49 


PLAYBOY 


here in our country, how many? A 
hundred, a thousand? 

Someone struck a match and 
touched it to a piece of dry paper from 
their pocket and shoved this under 
a bit of grass and leaves, and after 
awhile added tiny twigs which were 
wet and sputtered but finally caught, 
and the fire grew larger in the early 
morning as the sun came up and the 
men slowly turned from looking up 
river and were drawn to the fire, 
awkwardly, with nothing to say, and 
the sun colored the back of their necks 
as they bent down. 

Granger unfolded an oilskin with 
some bacon in it. "We'll have a bite. 
Then we'll turn around and walk up- 
stream. They'll be needing us up that 
way." 

Someone produced a small frying 
pan and the bacon went into it and 
the frying pan was set on the fire. 
After a moment the bacon began to 
flutter and dance in the pan and 
the sputter of it filled the morning 
air with its aroma. The men watched 
this ritual silently. 

Granger looked 
"Phoenix." 

"What?" 

“There was a silly damn bird called 
a Phoenix back before Christ, every 
few hundred years he built a pyre and 
burned himself up. He must have 
been first cousin to Man. But every 
time he burnt himself up he sprang out 
of the ashes, he got himself born all 
over again. And it looks like we're 
doing the same thing, over and over, 
but we've got one damn thing the 
Phoenix never had. We know the 
damn silly thing we just did. We know 
all the damn silly things we've done 


into the fire. 


for a thousand years and as long as we 
know that and always have it around 
where we can see it, some day we'll 
stop making the goddam funeral pyres 
and jumping in the middle of them. 
We pick up a few more people that 
remember, every generation.” 

“Now, let's get on upstream," said 
Granger. “And hold onto one thought: 
You're not important. You're not any- 
thing. Some day the load we're carry- 
ing with us may help someone. But 
even when we had the books on hand, 
a long time ago, we didn't use what we 
got out of them. We went right on 
insulting the dead. We went right on 
spitting in the graves of all the poor 
ones who died before us. We're going 
to meet a lot of lonely people in the 
next week and the next month and 
the next year. And when they ask 
us what we're doing, you can say, 
We're remembering. That’s where 
well win out in the long run. And 
some day we'll remember so much 
that we'll build the biggest goddam 
steamshovel in history and dig the 
biggest grave of all time and shove 
war in and cover it up. Come on now, 
we're going to build a mirror-factory 
first and put out nothing but mirrors 
for the next year and take a long 
look in them." 

They finished eating and put out 
the fire. The day was е all 
about them as if a pink lamp had been 
given more wick. In the trees, the 
birds that had flown away quickly 
now came back and settled down. 

Monmg began walking and after a 
moment found that the others had fall- 
en in behind him, going north. 
He was surprised, and moved aside 
to let Granger pass, but Granger 


looked at him and nodded him on. 
Montag went ahead. He looked at 
the river and the sky and the rusting 
track going back down to where the 
farms lay, where the barns stood full 
of hay, where a lot of people had 
walked by in the night on their way 
from the city. Later, in a month or six 
months, and certainly not more than 
a year, he would walk along here 
again, alone, and keep right on going 
until he caught up with the people. 

But now there was a long morn- 
ing's walk until noon, and if the men 
were silent it was because there was 
everything to think about and much 
to remember. Perhaps later in the 
morning, when the sun was up and 
had warmed them they would begin 
to talk, or just say the things they 
remembered, to be sure they were 
there, to be absolutely certain that 
things were safe in them. Montag felt 
the slow stir of words, the slow sim- 
mer. And when it came his turn, what 
could he say, what could he offer on 
a day like this, to make the trip a 
little easier? To everything there is a 
season. Yes. A time to break down, 
and a time to build up. Yes. A time 
to keep silence and a time to speak. 
Yes, all that. But what else. What else? 
Something, something. . . 

And on either side of the river was 
there a tree of life, which bare twelve 
manner of fruits, and yielded her 
fruit every month; And the leaves of 
the tree were for the healing of the 
nations. 

Yes, thought Montag, that's the 
one I'll save for noon. For noon. . . 

When we reach the city. 


THREE DAY PASS Continued from page 15) 


newer,” said Р. B., “I got a '38 Olds— 
$1,300 takes it, cash or terms—not a 
mile on it. The guy who owned it was 
president of a suicidepact club. He 
used to keep the car in the garage, 
and once a month one member of the 
club would go out and monoxide 
himself. That’s all the car was used 
for.” 

“Manny,” said John Smith to the 
photographer, “I want to get some- 
thing a little unusual here. This guy 
blew up a bridge in Morocco. The 
fascist troops were shooting at him 
while he attached the explosives. They 
got his buddy.” 

“The bastards,” said Manny. 

“What do you think?” asked John 
Smith. 

“Well, we'll fake something,” said 
Manny. He turned to me. “You crawl 
under the table and ГЇЇ give you this 
extension wire and you pretend you're 
hooking it onto the table leg. You the 
other soldier—what's your name?" 

"Montag Fortz." 

"—stand by with your fingers in 


50 


your ears.” 

“Swell,” said John Smith. “I won't 
be writing classified ads much long- 
er." 

“Thee,” Sam said to me, "getst un- 
der the table." 

I crawled under. "I had a cousin 
who was a photographer," I said. "He 
smuggled a camera into an clectrocu- 
tion once. Had it strapped to his leg. 
When they turned the juice on the 
prisoner, my cousin hoisted his trou- 
sers and clicked the shutter. Unfor- 
tunately, he wasn't able to focus. All 
he got was the nape of H. V. Kalten- 
born, who was covering the electrocu- 
tion for the Brooklyn Eagle. Kalten- 
born later bought a dozen enlarge- 
ments from him." 

"AM right, Manny said. "Now tie 
that wire around the table leg. That's 
it. Montag, you stick your fingers in 
your ears. That’s fine. Now one more. 
Got it.” 

“Now if you'll give me the dope 
on your Ёгіепа-” John Smith said to 
Sam. 


Sam took him aside, gave him my 
real name and address, and enough 
additional material to make certain 
the story would make page one of 
next morning's paper. 

“Gelt and Gelt,” I said from under 
the table, “I see what you're doing 
to those twins. A rare thing.” Then I 
passed out cold. 

е е е 


The next day it was all there—the 
picture alone got four columns. Every- 
one saw it—Mom, Pop, Estherlee. I 
tried to tell them that it was a mistake, 
but the story said it had been a secret 
mission (something Sam had added 
when I wasn’t listening) and everyone 
thought I was just being modest. I 
thought I might get court martialled, 
but I guess the Army doesn’t read 
the Press-Telegram. Estherlee thought 
my letters from Oklahoma were faked 
to hide the real nature of my assign- 
ment—I think Sam gave her that idea, 
too. She never did see the marine 


again. 


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