The Pedestrian
By Ray Bradbury
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 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.
It was an early November evening. 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.
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 centre of a plain, a wintry, windless Arizona desert with no house in a thousand miles, and only dry river beds, the street, for company. 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 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 correct? 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 anymore.“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 dear 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 centre 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?”“To the Psychiatric Centre 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.