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‘The Pedestrian’ 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 corner of an intersection and peer down (5) 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.
(10)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 (15) 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 on,
his feet making no noise on the lumpy walk.
For long ago he had wisely changed to sneakers when
strolling at (20) 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.
(25) On
this particular evening he began his journey in a westerly direction,
towards 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 (30)
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 (35)
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 stoodvery still, frozen,
he could imagine (40)
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?” (45)
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 (50) 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 (55) 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(60) 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:
(65)“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!”
(70) 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(75) 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!” (80)“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.
(85) “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-colored lights touching their faces, but never really
touching them. (90)
“No profession,” said the phonograph voice, hissing. “What are you
doing out?” “Walking,”
said Leonard Mead. “Walking!” (95)“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.”
(100)
“Your address!” “ “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?”
(105)“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 (106)
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?”
(110)“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.”
(115)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 (120)
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 (125)
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. (130) 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 (135)
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.
(140)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.
(150)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. Written
by Ray Bradbury, 1951. |