The Pedestrian

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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.
"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? A comedian falling off the stage?"
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? Eversince a year ago, 2052, the election year, the force had been cut down from three cars to one.
"But-"
"Your hands up! Or we'll Shoot!"
"Stand still. Stay where you are! Don't move!"
"Put up your hands!"
"Just walking,"
"Walking,"
"Walking, just walking, walking?"
"Walking!"
"What are you doing out?"
He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he passed the front window of the car he looked in. Ashe had expected, there was no one in the front seat, no one in the car at all.
"Wait a minute, I haven't done anything!"
"I protest!"
"Get in."
"Mr. Mead."
Get in."
The car moved down the empty river-bed streets and off away, leaving the empty streets with the empty side-walks, and no sound and no motion all the rest of the chill November night.
"Where are you taking me?"
"To the Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies."

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