在11月雾气蒙蒙的晚上8点，走出屋外，置身于寂静的城市夜景中，双脚踩在粗糙的混凝土人行道上，跨过长满草的地砖缝隙，双手放在衣兜里，穿过这一片寂静，一路前行——这是伦纳德·米德先生最喜欢做的事。此时是公元2053年，他独自一人生活在这个世界上，也可以说跟独自一人没什么两样。他已经做出了最终决定，选择了一种生活方式——他愿意大踏步地向前走，让自己呼出的哈气在身前凝结，然后像雪茄烟雾一样在空气中消散。

　　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.

　　这是11月初的一个晚上。空气中到处弥漫着冰霜。冰霜拍打在鼻子上，胸口却感觉火辣辣的——这种感觉就好像一棵圣诞树藏在那里，树枝上挂满了看不清的积雪，但你却可以感受到外面忽明忽暗的寒光。他聆听着自己柔软的鞋底踏在秋天的落叶上发出的微弱的沙沙声，感到心满意足。口哨声从他的齿间传出，这声音温柔且透着一丝寒意。他偶尔会捡起脚下的叶子，一边继续行走，一边在少有的灯光下观察它的骨架图案，嗅着它散发出的腐烂气味。

　　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.

　　这条街，寂静、漫长、空旷，只有他的身影在那里游荡，就像无边的旷野上空翱翔的一只雄鹰。如果他闭上眼睛，停下脚步，一动不动地站在那里，他的脑海中就会浮现出自己站在平坦、寒冷、无风的亚利桑那沙漠 的中心，一千英里之内没有任何房屋，没有任何街道，陪伴他的只有干涸的河床。在这十年里，白天和晚上加在一起，他走过了数千英里，却从未遇到任何其他行人，一个也没有。

　　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.

　　他转身走进了一条小巷，沿着蜿蜒的小路朝他家的方向走去。在距他家只有一个街区的时候，突然一辆汽车一个急转弯出现在他面前，车顶闪烁着刺眼的白色光锥。他愣住了，呆站在那里，像黑夜里的一只飞蛾，被突如其来的光照弄得不知所措。过了一小会儿，他缓过神来，朝那辆车走去。

　　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.

　　一个金属般的声音向他喊话：“站在那里！不许动！”他停了下来。“举起你的双手！”“但是……”他说。“举起你的双手！否则，我们要开枪了！”当然，这是警车，尽管见到警车是一件非常罕见且令人难以置信的事情。这座300万人口的城市，目前只剩下了一辆警车，难道这不对吗？从一年前，也就是2052大选年开始，警方就已经把警车从原来的三辆削减到了一辆。犯罪率持续降低，警方已经失去了存在的意义，留下这一辆孤零零的警车，在空荡荡的街道上四处徘徊已经足以。

　　'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.

　　“你叫什么名字？”警车上传出金属般的低沉声音。他的眼睛被强光照射着，因此看不到警车上的人。“伦纳德·米德。”他回答说。“请大点儿声！”“伦纳德·米德！”“从事什么职业？”“我想你可以称我为作家。”“无业”警车说，似乎在自言自语。光线像针一样刺透他的胸口，将他固定在那里，如同博物馆中的一件标本。

　　'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.'

　　“也可以这么说。”米德先生说。他已经多年没写过东西了，而且目前市面上也不再有杂志和书籍出售。“无业，”留声机般的声音再次响起，同时夹杂着嘶嘶声。“你出来干什么？”“散步。”伦纳德·米德回答说。“散步！”“对，只是散步。”他轻描淡写地说，但表情有些冷漠。“散步，仅仅是散步，散步？”“是的，警官。”“去哪里散步？为什么散步？”“出来透透气，看看风景。”

　　'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.'

　　“请提供你的地址！”“圣詹姆斯南街11号。”“你的房子里有空气，也有空调，是吧米德先生？”“是的。”“你家里也装了观景屏，是吧？”“没有。”“没有？”然后，从寂静中传出一阵噼里啪啦的声音，应该是警方在记录控诉理由。“你结婚了吗，米德先生？”“没有。”

　　'Not married,' said the police voice behind the fiery beam. The moon was high and dear among the stars and the houses were grey 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.'

　　“未婚。”刺眼的光束后传来警察的声音。此时此刻，皎洁的月亮高悬在满天的星斗间，夜空下的房屋灰蒙蒙的，静静地矗立在那里。“没人愿意嫁给我。”伦纳德·米德微笑着说。“没问你就不要说话！”伦纳德·米德在寒夜中等待。“只是散步，是吧米德先生？”“是的。”“可是，你还没有解释你为什么出来散步。”

　　'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. ''s 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.'

　　我解释过了——出来透透气，看看风景，只是散散步而已。”“你经常这样做吗？”“每天晚上都会出来走走，已经好几年了。” 警车停靠在街道中心，车上的收音机里发出微微的嗡嗡声。“好的，米德先生，”警车中的声音说道。“没事了吗？”他彬彬有礼地问道。“是的，”那个声音回答道。“进来”。此时传来一个叹息声。然后，砰的一声，警车的后排车门弹开了。“上车。”

　　'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.'

　　“等一下，我什么也没做啊！”“上车。”“我抗议！”“米德先生，请你上车。”突然间，他的走路姿势变得像一个醉汉。当走过汽车前车窗时，他向里面看了一眼。正如他所料，前排座位上并没有人，车里一个人也没有。“上车。”

　　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.

　　他将手放在车门上，凝视着后座。后排座椅其实是一个小牢房，一个带有栏杆的黑色小牢房。牢房里散发出铆接钢的气味，以及很浓的防腐剂气味。它闻起来过于干净、过于坚硬，还夹杂着非常浓烈的金属味。里面除了硬邦邦的物件，什么也没有。

　　'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.

　　“如果你有妻子，她还能帮你提供不在场证明，”那个钢铁般的声音说道，“但是……”“你们要带我去哪儿？”“去‘精神病患者回归社会趋向研究中心’”。他上了车。车门缓缓地关上。警车闪烁着微弱的警灯，穿行于林荫大道，向前方驶去。

　　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.

　　过了一会儿，他们经过了大街旁的一栋房屋，整个城市中所有的房屋都是漆黑一片，只有这栋房屋灯火通明。每个窗口都像是寒冷夜色中发射出明亮、温暖光芒的方格子。“那栋房子是我家。”伦纳德·米德说。但没有人回答他。