Ray Bradbury. The Pedestrian

                Ray Bradbury
                http://blogs.myspace.com/mysteryal

                The Pedestrian
                1951

     To  enter  out  into  that  silence that was the city at eight o'clock of a
misty evening in November, to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to
step  over  grassy  seams  and  make  your  way,  hands  in pockets, through the
silences,  that was what Mr.Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. He would stand
upon the comer of an intersection and peer down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk
in  four directions, deciding which way to go, but it really made no difference;
he  was  alone in this world of 2053 A.D., or as good as alone, and with a final
decision  made, a path selected, he would stride off, sending patterns of frosty
air before him like the smoke of a cigar.
     Sometimes  he would walk for hours and miles and return only at midnight to
his  house.  And  on his way he would see the cottages and homes with their dark
windows,  and  it  was not unequal to walking through a graveyard where only the
faintest  glimmers  of  firefly  light  appeared in flickers behind the windows.
Sudden  gray  phantoms  seemed to manifest upon inner room walls where a curtain
was still undrawn against the night, or there were whisperings and murmurs where
a window in a tomb-like building was still open.
     Mr.Leonard Mead would pause, cock his head, listen, look, and march OD, his
feet  making  no  noise on the lumpy walk. For long ago he had wisely changed to
sneakers  when strolling at night, because the dogs in intermittent squads would
parallel his journey with barkings if he wore hard heels, and lights might click
on  and  faces  appear and an entire street be startled by the passing of a lone
figure, himself, in the early November evening.
     On  this  particular  evening he began his journey in a westerly direction,
toward  the  hidden  sea.  There was a good crystal frost in the air; it cut the
nose  and  made the lungs blaze like a Christmas tree inside; you could feel the
cold  light  going  on  and off, all the branches filled with invisible snow. He
listened  to  the  faint  push  of  his  soft  shoes  through autumn leaves with
satisfaction,  and whistled a cold quiet whistle between his teeth, occasionally
picking up a leaf as he passed, examining its skeletal pattern in the infrequent
lamplights as he went on, smelling its rusty smell.
     "Hello,  in  there," he whispered to every house on every side as he moved.
"What's  up  tonight  on  Channel 4, Channel 7, Channel 9? Where are the cowboys
rushing,  and  do  I  see  the  United  States Cavalry over the next hill to the
rescue?"
     The  street was silent and long and empty, with only his shadow moving like
the shadow of a hawk in mid-country. If he closed his eyes and stood very still,
frozen,  he could imagine himself upon the center of a plain, a wintry, windless
Arizona  desert  with no house in a thousand miles, and only dry river beds, the
streets, for company.
     "What  is  it  now?"  he  asked  the  houses,  noticing  his  wrist  watch.
"Eight-thirty  P.M.?  Time  for  a  dozen  assorted  murders? A quiz? A revue? A
comedian falling off the stage?"
     Was that a murmur of laughter from within a moon-white house? He hesitated,
but  went  on when nothing more happened. He stumbled over a particularly uneven
section  of  sidewalk.  The cement was vanishing under flowers and grass. In ten
years  of  walking  by  night  or  day, for thousands of miles, he had never met
another person walking, not one in all that time,
     He  came  to  a  cloverleaf  intersection which stood silent where two main
highways crossed the town. During the day it was a thunderous surge of cars. the
gas  stations  open,  a  great  insect  rustling  and  a ceaseless jockeying for
position  as  the scarab-beetles, a faint incense puttering from their exhausts,
skimmed  homeward  to the far directions. But now these highways, too, were like
streams in a dry season, all stone and bed and moon radiance.
     He  turned  back  on a side street, circling around toward his home. He was
within  a  block  of  his  destination  when  the lone car turned a corner quite
suddenly  and flashed a fierce white cone of light upon him. He stood entranced,
not unlike a night moth, stunned by the illumination, and then drawn toward it.
     A metallic voice called to him:
     "Stand still. Stay where you are! Don't move!"
     He halted.
     "Put up your hands!"
     "But -" he said.
     "Your hands up! Or we'll shoot!"
     The  police,  of  course,  but  what a rare, incredible thing, in a city of
three  million,  there  was  only  one police car left, wasn't that conect? Ever
since  a  year  ago,  2052,  the election year, the force had been cut down from
three  cars to one. Crime was ebbing; there was no need now for the police, save
for this one lone car wandering and wandering the empty streets.
     "Your name?" said the police car in a metallic whisper.
     He couldn't see the men in it for the bright light in his eyes.
     "Leonard Mead," he said.
     "Speak up!"
     "Leonard Mead!"
     "Business or profession?"
     "I guess you'd call me a writer."
     "No  profession,"  said  the police car, as if talking to itself. The light
held him fixed, like a museum specimen, needle thrust through chest.
     "You  might  say that," said Mr.Mead. He hadn't written in years. Magazines
and  books  didn't  sell any more. Everything went on in the tomb-like houses at
night  now,  he  thought, continuing his fancy. The tombs, ill-lit by television
light,  where  the  people  sat like the dead, the gray or multi-coloured lights
touching their faces, but never really touching them.
     "No  profession,"  said  the phonograph voice, hissing. "What are you doing
out?"
     "Walking," said Leonard Mead.
     "Walking!"
     "Just walking," he said simply, but his face felt cold.
     "Walking, just walking, walking?"
     "Yes, sir."
     "Walking where? For what?"
     "Walking for air. Walking to see."
     "Your address!"
     "Eleven South Saint James Street."
     "And there is air in your house, you have an air conditioner, Mr.Mead?"
     "Yes."
     "And you have a viewing screen in your house to see with?"
     "No."
     "No?" There was a crackling quiet that in itself was an accusation.
     "Are you married, Mr.Mead?"
     "No."
     "Not  married,"  said  the police voice behind the fiery beam. The moon was
high and clear among the stars and the houses were gray and silent.
     "Nobody wanted me," said Leonard Mead with a smile.
     "Don't speak unless you're spoken to!"
     Leonard Mead waited in the cold night.
     "Just walking, Mr.Mead?"
     "Yes."
     "But you haven't explained for what purpose."
     "I explained; for air, and to see, and just to walk."
     "Have you done this often?"
     "Every night for years."
     The  police  car  sat  in  the  center  of the street with its radio throat
faintly humming.
     "Well, Mr.Mead," it said.
     "Is that all?" he asked politely.
     "Yes,"  said  the  voice. "Here." There was a sigh, a pop. The back door of
the police car sprang wide. "Get in."
     "Wait a minute, I haven't done anything!"
     "Get in."
     "I protest!"
     "Mr.Mead."
     He  walked  like a man suddenly drunk. As he passed the front window of the
car he looked in. As he had expected, there was no one in the front seat, no one
in the car at all.
     "Get in."
     He  put  his  hand  to  the door and peered into the back seat, which was a
little  cell,  a  little  black  jail with bars. It smelled of riveted steel. It
smelled  of  harsh antiseptic; it smelled too clean and hard and metallic. There
was nothing soft there.
     "Now if you had a wife to give you an alibi," said the iron voice. "But -"
     "Where are you taking me?"
     The   car  hesitated,  or  rather  gave  a  faint  whirring  click,  as  if
information,  somewhere,  was dropping card by punch-slotted card under electric
eyes. "To the Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies."
     He  got  in.  The door shut with a soft thud. The police car rolled through
the night avenues, flashing its dim lights ahead.
     They  passed one house on one street a moment later, one house in an entire
city  of  houses  that  were  dark, but this one particular house had all of its
electric  lights  brightly  lit, every window a loud yellow illumination, square
and warm in the cool darkness.
     "That's my house," said Leonard Mead.
     No one answered him.
     The  car  moved  down the empty river-bed streets and off away, leaving the
empty  streets with the empty sidewalks, and no sound and no motion all the rest
of the chill November night.