The Pedestrian

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To enter out into that silence that was the center of a plain, a wintry, windless Arizona desert city at eight o'clock of a misty evening in November, with no house in a thousand miles, and only dry river to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to beds, the streets, for company. step over grassy seams and make your way, hands in "What is it now?" he asked the houses, pockets, through the silences, that was what Mr. noticing his wrist watch. "Eight-thirty P.M.? Time for Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. He would a dozen assorted murders? A quiz? A revue? A stand upon the corner of an intersection and peer comedian falling off the stage?" down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in four Was that a murmur of laughter from within a directions, deciding which way to go, but it really moon-white house? He hesitated, but went on when made no difference; he was alone in this world of nothing more happened. He stumbled over a A.D. 2053, or as good as alone, and with a final particularly uneven section of sidewalk. The cement decision made, a path selected, he would stride off, was vanishing under flowers and grass. In ten years sending patterns of frosty air before him like the of walking by night or day, for thousands of miles, he smoke of a cigar. had never met another person walking, not once in all Sometimes he would walk for hours and that time. miles and return only at midnight to his house. And He came to a cloverleaf intersection which on his way he would see the cottages and homes with stood silent where two main highways crossed the their dark windows, and it was not unequal to town. During the day it was a thunderous surge of walking through a graveyard where only the faintest cars, the gas stations open, a great insect rustling and glimmers of firefly light appeared in flickers behind a ceaseless jockeying for position as the scarab- the windows. Sudden gray phantoms seemed to beetles, a faint incense puttering from their exhausts, manifest upon inner room walls where a curtain was skimmed homeward to the far directions. But now still undrawn against the night, or there were these highways, too, were like streams in a dry whisperings and murmurs where a window in a tomb- season, all stone and bed and moon radiance. like building was still open. He turned back on a side street, circling Mr. Leonard Mead would pause, cock his around toward his home. He was within a block of his head, listen, look, and march on, his feet making no destination when the lone car turned a corner quite noise on the lumpy walk. For long ago he had wisely suddenly and flashed a fierce white cone of light changed to sneakers when strolling at night, because upon him. He stood entranced, not unlike a night the dogs in intermittent squads would parallel his moth, stunned by the illumination, and then drawn journey with barkings if he wore hard heels, and toward it. lights might click on and faces appear and an entire A metallic voice called to him: street be startled by the passing of a lone figure, "Stand still. Stay where you are! Don't himself, in the early November evening. move!" On this particular evening he began his He halted. journey in a westerly direction, toward the hidden "Put up your hands!" sea. There was a good crystal frost in the air; it cut the "But-" he said. nose and made the lungs blaze like a Christmas tree "Your hands up! Or we'll Shoot!" inside; you could feel the cold light going on and off, The police, of course, but what a rare, all the branches filled with invisible snow. He incredible thing; in a city of three million, there was listened to the faint push of his soft shoes through only one police car left, wasn't that correct? Ever autumn leaves with satisfaction, and whistled a cold since a year ago, 2052, the election year, the force quiet whistle between his teeth, occasionally picking had been cut down from three cars to one. Crime was up a leaf as he passed, examining its skeletal pattern ebbing; there was no need now for the police, save for in the infrequent lamplights as he went on, smelling this one lone car wandering and wandering the empty its rusty smell. streets. "Hello, in there," he whispered to every "Your name?" said the police car in a house on every side as he moved. "What's up tonight metallic whisper. He couldn't see the men in it for the on Channel 4, Channel 7, Channel 9? Where are the bright light in his eyes. cowboys rushing, and do I see the United States "Leonard Mead," he said. Cavalry over the next hill to the rescue?" "Speak up!" The street was silent and long and empty, "Leonard Mead!" with only his shadow moving like the shadow of a "Business or profession?" hawk in midcountry. If he closed his eyes and stood "I guess you'd call me a writer." very still, frozen, he could imagine himself upon the "No profession," said the police car, as if !"#$%&$'$()*+,-.%/01203 45%6,5%7*,'48*5 talking to itself. The light held him fixed, like a "I protest!" museum specimen, needle thrust through chest. "Mr. Mead." "You might say that, " said Mr. Mead. He He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he hadn't written in years. Magazines and books didn't passed the front window of the car he looked in. As sell any more. Everything went on in the tomblike he had expected, there was no one in the front seat, no houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy. one in the car at all. The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people "Get in." sat like the dead, the gray or multicolored lights He put his hand to the door and peered into touching their faces, but never really touching them. the back seat, which was a little cell, a little black jail "No profession," said the phonograph voice, with bars. It smelled of riveted steel. It smelled of hissing. "What are you doing out?" harsh antiseptic; it smelled too clean and hard and "Walking," said Leonard Mead. metallic. There was nothing soft there. "Walking!" "Now if you had a wife to give you an alibi," "Just walking," he said simply, but his face said the iron voice. "But-" felt cold. "Where are you taking me?" "Walking, just walking, walking?" The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint "Yes, sir." whirring click, as if information, somewhere, was "Walking where? For what?" dropping card by punch-slotted card under electric "Walking for air. Walking to see." eyes. "To the Psychiatric Center for Research on "Your address!" Regressive Tendencies." "Eleven South Saint James Street." He got in. The door shut with a soft thud. "And there is air in your house, you have an The police car rolled through the night avenues, air conditioner, Mr. Mead?" flashing its dim lights ahead. "Yes." They passed one house on one street a "And you have a viewing screen in your moment later, one house in an entire city of houses house to see with?" that were dark, but this one particular house had all of "No." its electric lights brightly lit, every window a loud "No?" There was a crackling quiet that in yellow illumination, square and warm in the cool itself was an accusation. darkness. "Are you married, Mr. Mead?" "That's my house," said Leonard Mead. "No." No one answered him. "Not married," said the police voice behind The car moved down the empty river-bed the fiery beam, The moon was high and clear among streets and off away, leaving the empty streets with the stars and the houses were gray and silent. the empty side-walks, and no sound and no motion all "Nobody wanted me," said Leonard Mead the rest of the chill November night. with a smile. "Don't speak unless you're spoken to!" Leonard Mead waited in the cold night. "Just walking, Mr. Mead?" Bradbury, Ray (1920- ), is an American "Yes." author best known for his fantasy stories and science "But you haven't explained for what fiction. Bradbury's best writing effectively combines purpose." a lively imagination with a poetic style. "I explained; for air, and to see, and just to Collections of Bradbury's stories include walk." The Martian Chronicles (1950), The Illustrated Man "Have you done this often?" (1951), The October Country (1955), I Sing the Body "Every night for years." Electric! (1969), Quicker Than the Eye (1996), and The police car sat in the center of the street One More for the Road (2002). His novel Fahrenheit with its radio throat faintly humming. 451 (1953) describes a society that bans the "Well, Mr. Mead," it said. ownership of books. His other novels include "Is that all?" he asked politely. Dandelion Wine (1957), a poetic story of a boy's "Yes," said the voice. "Here." There was a summer in an Illinois town in 1928; and Something sigh, a pop. The back door of the police car sprang Wicked This Way Comes (1962), a suspenseful wide. "Get in." fantasy about a black magic carnival that comes to a "Wait a minute, I haven't done anything!" small Midwestern town. He has also written poetry, "Get in." screenplays, and stage plays.