To enter out into that silence that was thecity at eight o'clock of a misty evening in November,to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, tostep over grassy seams and make your way, hands inpockets, through the silences, that was what Mr.Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. He wouldstand upon the corner of an intersection and peerdown long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in fourdirections, deciding which way to go, but it reallymade no difference; he was alone in this world ofA.D. 2053, or as good as alone, and with a finaldecision made, a path selected, he would stride off,sending patterns of frosty air before him like thesmoke of a cigar.Sometimes he would walk for hours andmiles and return only at midnight to his house. Andon his way he would see the cottages and homes withtheir dark windows, and it was not unequal towalking through a graveyard where only the faintestglimmers of firefly light appeared in flickers behindthe windows. Sudden gray phantoms seemed tomanifest upon inner room walls where a curtain wasstill undrawn against the night, or there werewhisperings and murmurs where a window in a tomblikebuilding was still open.Mr. Leonard Mead would pause, cock hishead, listen, look, and march on, his feet making nonoise on the lumpy walk. For long ago he had wiselychanged to sneakers when strolling at night, becausethe dogs in intermittent squads would parallel hisjourney with barkings if he wore hard heels, andlights might click on and faces appear and an entirestreet be startled by the passing of a lone figure,himself, in the early November evening.On this particular evening he began hisjourney in a westerly direction, toward the hiddensea. There was a good crystal frost in the air; it cut thenose and made the lungs blaze like a Christmas treeinside; you could feel the cold light going on and off,all the branches filled with invisible snow. Helistened to the faint push of his soft shoes throughautumn leaves with satisfaction, and whistled a coldquiet whistle between his teeth, occasionally pickingup a leaf as he passed, examining its skeletal patternin the infrequent lamplights as he went on, smellingits rusty smell."Hello, in there," he whispered to everyhouse on every side as he moved. "What's up tonighton Channel 4, Channel 7, Channel 9? Where are thecowboys rushing, and do I see the United StatesCavalry over the next hill to the rescue?"The street was silent and long and empty,with only his shadow moving like the shadow of ahawk in midcountry. If he closed his eyes and stoodvery still, frozen, he could imagine himself upon thecenter of a plain, a wintry, windless Arizona desertwith no house in a thousand miles, and only dry riverbeds, the streets, for company."What is it now?" he asked the houses,noticing his wrist watch. "Eight-thirty P.M.? Time fora dozen assorted murders? A quiz? A revue? Acomedian falling off the stage?"Was that a murmur of laughter from within amoon-white house? He hesitated, but went on whennothing more happened. He stumbled over aparticularly uneven section of sidewalk. The cementwas vanishing under flowers and grass. In ten yearsof walking by night or day, for thousands of miles, hehad never met another person walking, not once in allthat time.He came to a cloverleaf intersection whichstood silent where two main highways crossed thetown. During the day it was a thunderous surge ofcars, the gas stations open, a great insect rustling anda ceaseless jockeying for position as the scarabbeetles,a faint incense puttering from their exhausts,skimmed homeward to the far directions. But nowthese highways, too, were like streams in a dryseason, all stone and bed and moon radiance.He turned back on a side street, circlingaround toward his home. He was within a block of hisdestination when the lone car turned a corner quitesuddenly and flashed a fierce white cone of lightupon him. He stood entranced, not unlike a nightmoth, stunned by the illumination, and then drawntoward it.A metallic voice called to him:"Stand still. Stay where you are! Don'tmove!"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 wasonly one police car left, wasn't that correct? Eversince a year ago, 2052, the election year, the forcehad been cut down from three cars to one. Crime wasebbing; there was no need now for the police, save forthis one lone car wandering and wandering the emptystreets."Your name?" said the police car in ametallic whisper. He couldn't see the men in it for thebright 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 amuseum specimen, needle thrust through chest."You might say that, " said Mr. Mead. Hehadn't written in years. Magazines and books didn'tsell any more. Everything went on in the tomblikehouses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy.The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the peoplesat like the dead, the gray or multicolored lightstouching 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 facefelt 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 anair conditioner, Mr. Mead?""Yes.""And you have a viewing screen in yourhouse to see with?""No.""No?" There was a crackling quiet that initself was an accusation."Are you married, Mr. Mead?""No.""Not married," said the police voice behindthe fiery beam, The moon was high and clear amongthe stars and the houses were gray and silent."Nobody wanted me," said Leonard Meadwith 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 whatpurpose.""I explained; for air, and to see, and just towalk.""Have you done this often?""Every night for years."The police car sat in the center of the streetwith its radio throat faintly humming."Well, Mr. Mead," it said."Is that all?" he asked politely."Yes," said the voice. "Here." There was asigh, a pop. The back door of the police car sprangwide. "Get in.""Wait a minute, I haven't done anything!""Get in.""I protest!""Mr. Mead."He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As hepassed the front window of the car he looked in. Ashe had expected, there was no one in the front seat, noone in the car at all."Get in."He put his hand to the door and peered intothe back seat, which was a little cell, a little black jailwith bars. It smelled of riveted steel. It smelled ofharsh antiseptic; it smelled too clean and hard andmetallic. 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 faintwhirring click, as if information, somewhere, wasdropping card by punch-slotted card under electriceyes. "To the Psychiatric Center for Research onRegressive 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 amoment later, one house in an entire city of housesthat were dark, but this one particular house had all ofits electric lights brightly lit, every window a loudyellow illumination, square and warm in the cooldarkness."That's my house," said Leonard Mead.No one answered him.The car moved down the empty river-bedstreets and off away, leaving the empty streets withthe empty side-walks, and no sound and no motion allthe rest of the chill November night.