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雷·布拉德伯里（Ray Bradbury，1920—2012），世界公认的科幻大师，曾获世界奇幻文学协会终生成就奖、美国科幻小说作家协会大师奖等众多奖项。布拉德伯里一生创作了数百篇短篇小说，出版近五十本书，还写了大量的诗歌、随笔、歌剧、戏剧、影视剧本。
《2026年8月：细雨将至》是布拉德伯里的经典短篇科幻故事集《火星纪事》（The Martian Chronicles）的其中一篇，讲述了在2026年8月的一天，一座自动化房子从井然有序走向灭亡的故事。房子里空无一人，房子却如常发出指令，按照固定程序为早已不复存在的主人服务，而房子最后也消亡在一场大火中。通过故事的各种细节描写，读者会发现一个可怕的事实：人类已经在一场核战争中灭亡了。该故事写于1950年，当时二战才结束不久，美国在日本投放的两颗原子弹的威力给世人留下了可怕的印象。作者通过这个故事告诫人类要警惕核战争，并讽刺了人类对于科技的过度依赖。本期节选了该故事的前半部分，让我们一起来细细品读。
August 2026： There Will Come Soft Rains
In the living room the voice-clock sang， Tick-tock， seven o’clock， time to get up， time to get up， seven o’clock！ as if it were afraid that nobody would. The morning house lay empty. The clock ticked on， repeating and repeating its sounds into the emptiness. Seven-nine， breakfast time， seven-nine！
In the kitchen the breakfast stove gave a hissing sigh and 1）ejected from its warm interior eight pieces of perfectly browned toast， eight eggs sunnyside up， sixteen slices of bacon， two coffees， and two cool glasses of milk.
“Today is August 4， 2026，” said a second voice from the kitchen ceiling， “in the city of Allendale， California.”It repeated the date three times for memory’s sake. “Today is Mr. Featherstone’s birthday. Today is the anniversary of Tilita’s marriage. Insurance is payable， as are the water， gas， and light bills.”
Somewhere in the walls， 2）relays clicked， memory tapes glided under electric eyes.
Eight-one， tick-tock， eight-one o’clock， off to school， off to work， run， run， eight-one！ But no doors slammed， no carpets took the soft 3）tread of rubber heels. It was raining outside. The weather box on the front door sang quietly：“Rain， rain， go away； rubbers， raincoats for today…”And the rain tapped on the empty house， echoing. Outside， the garage 4）chimed and lifted its door to reveal the waiting car. After a long while the door swung down again.
At eight-thirty the eggs were 5）shriveled and the toast was like stone. An aluminum wedge 6）scraped them into the sink， where hot water whirled them down a metal throat which digested and flushed them away to the distant sea. The dirty dishes were dropped into a hot washer and emerged twinkling dry.
Nine-fifteen， sang the clock， time to clean.
Out of 7）warrens in the wall， tiny robot mice 8）darted. The rooms were 9）acrawl with the small cleaning animals， all rubber and metal. They 10）thudded against chairs， whirling their mustached runners， 11）kneading the rug 12）nap， sucking gently at hidden dust. Then， like mysterious invaders， they popped into their 13）burrows. Their pink electric eyes faded. The house was clean.
Ten o’clock. The sun came out from behind the rain. The house stood alone in a city of rubble and ashes. This was the one house left standing. All night the ruined city gave off a radioactive glow which could be seen for miles.
Ten-fifteen. The garden 14）sprinklers whirled up in golden founts， filling the soft morning air with scatterings of brightness. The water 15）pelted windowpanes， running down the 16）charred west side where the house had been burned evenly free of its white paint. The entire west face of the house was black， save for five places. Here the 17）silhouette in paint of a man mowing a lawn. Here， as in a photograph， a woman bent to pick flowers. Still farther over， their images burned in wood in one titanic instant， a small boy， hands flung into the air； higher up， the image of a thrown ball， and opposite him a girl， hands raised to catch a ball which never came down. The five spots of paint—the man， the woman， the children， the ball—remained. The rest was a thin charcoaled layer.
The gentle sprinkler rain filled the garden with falling light.
Until this day however， how well the house had kept its peace. How carefully it had inquired， “Who goes there？ What’s the password？” and， getting no answer from lonely foxes and whining cats， it had shut up its windows and drawn 18）shades in an old maidenly preoccupation with self-protection which bordered on a mechanical 19）paranoia.
It quivered at each sound， the house did. If a sparrow brushed a window， the shade snapped up. The bird， startled， flew off！ No， not even a bird must touch the house！
The house was an 20）altar with ten thousand attendants， big， small， servicing， attending， in choirs. But the gods had gone away， and the ritual of the religion continued senselessly， uselessly.
Twelve noon.
A dog whined， shivering， on the front porch. The front door recognized the dog voice and opened. The dog， once huge and fleshy， but now gone to bone and covered with 21）sores， moved in and through the house， tracking mud. Behind it whirred angry mice， angry at having to pick up mud， angry at inconvenience.
For not a leaf fragment blew under the door but what the wall panels flipped open and the copper scrap rats flashed swiftly out. The offending dust， hair， or paper， seized in miniature steel jaws， was raced back into the burrows. There， down tubes which fed into the cellar， it was dropped into the sighing vent of an 22）incinerator which sat like evil 23）Baal in a dark corner. The dog ran upstairs， hysterically yelping to each door， at last realizing， as the house realized， that only silence was there. It sniffed the air and scratched the kitchen door. Behind the door， the stove was making pancakes which filled the house with a rich baked odor and the scent of maple syrup.
The dog frothed at the mouth， lying at the door， sniffing， its eyes turned to fire. It ran wildly in circles， biting at its tail， spun in a frenzy， and died. It lay in the parlor for an hour.
Two o’clock， sang a voice.
Delicately sensing decay at last， the regiments of mice hummed out as softly as blown gray leaves in an electrical wind.
Two-fifteen.
The dog was gone.
In the cellar， the incinerator glowed suddenly and a whirl of sparks leaped up the chimney.
Two thirty-five.
Bridge tables sprouted from 24）patio walls. Playing cards fluttered onto pads in a shower of pips. Martinis manifested on an oaken bench with egg-salad sandwiches. Music played. But the tables were silent and the cards untouched.
At four-five the tables folded like great butterflies back through the paneled walls.
Four-thirty. The nursery walls glowed. Animals took shape： yellow giraffes， blue lions， pink antelopes， lilac panthers 25）cavorting in crystal substance. The walls were glass. They looked upon every color and fantasy. Hidden films docked through well-oiled 26）sprockets， and the walls lived. The nursery floor was woven to resemble a crisp， cereal meadow. Over this ran aluminum roaches and iron crickets， and in the hot still air butterflies of delicate red tissue wavered among the sharp aroma of animal 27）spoors！ There was the sound like a great matted yellow hive of bees within a dark 28）bellows， the lazy bumble of a purring lion. And there was the patter of okapi feet and the murmur of a fresh jungle rain， like hoofs， falling upon the summer-starched grass. Now the walls dissolved into a distance of parched weed， mile on mile， and warm endless sky. The animals drew away into thorn 29）brakes and water holes.
It was the children’s hour.
Five o’clock. The bath filled with clear hot water.
Six， seven， eight o’clock. The dinner dishes manipulated like magic tricks， and in the study a click. In the metal stand outside the hearth where a fire now blazed up warmly， a cigar popped out， half an inch of soft gray ash on it， smoking， waiting.
Nine o’clock. The beds warmed their hidden circuits， for nights were cool here. Nine-five. A voice spoke from the study ceiling：
“Mrs. McClellan， which poem would you like this evening？”
The house was silent.
The voice said at last， “Since you express no preference， I shall select a poem at random.”
Quiet music rose to back the voice. “Sara Teasdale. As I recall， your favorite…
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground，
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound；
And frogs in the pools singing at night，
And wild plum trees in tremulous white；
Robins will wear their feathery fire，
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire；
And not one will know of the war， not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind， neither bird nor tree，
if mankind perished utterly；
And Spring herself， when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.”
The fire burned on the stone hearth and the cigar fell away into a mound of quiet ash on its tray. The empty chairs faced each other between the silent walls， and the music played.
At ten o’clock the house began to die.
客厅里，人声闹钟高声响起，滴答，七点了，该起床了，该起床了，七点了！仿佛害怕没人会起床似的。早上，房子里空无一人。闹钟继续滴答滴答地行走，在空荡荡的房间里一遍遍回响着。七点九分了，早餐时间到了，七点九分了！
厨房里，早餐机响起了嘶的一声，接着，热烘烘的机器里便弹出八块火候正好的棕色面包，八个单煎一面的荷包蛋，16片培根，两杯咖啡和两杯常温牛奶。
“今天是2026年8月4日，”厨房的天花板上传来第二个声音，“加利福尼亚州艾伦代尔市。”为了让人记住，这个声音把日期重复了三遍。“今天是费瑟斯通先生的生日。今天是提莉塔的结婚周年纪念日。今天该交保险费了，还有水费、煤气费和电费。”
在墙上的某个地方，继电器启动了，记忆磁带在电子眼的监控下开始滑动。
八点一分了，滴答，八点一分了，上学了，上班了，赶快，赶快，八点一分了！但屋里没有听到关门声，也没有听到橡胶鞋在地毯上走动的声音。现在外面在下雨。门前的天气预报机静静地唱着：“雨啊，雨啊，快走吧；今天别忘了带橡胶鞋和雨衣……”雨滴打在空房子上，发出回声。外面，车库轰然开启，露出了在等待的车辆。等了好一会儿，车库的门再次缓缓落下。
八点三十分，煎蛋干瘪了，面包变得像石头一样硬。一块楔型铝刮把它们刮入水槽，接着它们被热水冲入金属管道内，被消化，被冲向遥远的大海。脏盘子被放到热乎乎的洗碗机内，出来后变得洁亮如新，没有水迹。
九点十五分，闹钟响起，该打扫房间了。
许多小机器鼠从墙上的小洞里窜出来。房间里爬满了这种负责打扫的小动物，都是橡胶和金属制的。它们砰砰地敲击椅子，转动机械触须，把地毯脱落的绒毛揉捏成团，轻轻吸去藏在缝中的灰尘。然后，如神秘的入侵者一般，它们跳回了自己的洞里。它们那闪着粉光的电子眼也暗了下来。房子被打扫得干干净净。
十点。雨中，太阳出来了。这所房子独自伫立在这座已成废墟的荒城中。这是唯一仅存的房子。整夜，这座荒城发出一道放射性亮光，数英里内的地方都可看到。
十点十五分。洒水器在金色的储水缸里缓缓旋起，为清晨柔和的空气注入亮白的水花。水流打向窗户的玻璃，沿着房子的西墙流下，那里的白漆都已被大火烧毁了。除了五个地方，房子西墙的其他地方都是一片焦黑。这里，有一个正在修剪草坪的男人的黑色剪影。这里，像是在一张照片里，一个女人正弯腰摘花。远一点的地方，一个小男孩双手伸向空中；高一点的地方，有一个被扔出的球，男孩对面是一个女孩，她正抬起双手准备去接那颗永远也不会落下的球，他们的剪影在那巨大威力袭来的一瞬被烧蚀在木墙上了。那五处地方的油漆——男人、女人、孩子、球的影像所在之处——还没掉落。墙上的其他地方都已经成了一层厚厚的黑炭。
洒水器喷洒出的细细水花闪着磷光淅沥而下，溢满了整个花园。 然而，直至今日，这座房子依然安然无恙。它总会对来访者细细询问：“谁在门外？密码是什么？”孤单的狐狸与嘶叫的猫没有给出答案，房子就关上窗户，拉上窗帘，像个得了机器妄想症的老处女一样，把自己保护得滴水不漏。
任何动静都能让这座房子颤抖。如果麻雀停在窗户旁，窗帘就会马上拉起。鸟儿就被吓走了！就连一只鸟都无法接近这座房子！
这座房子宛如一个神坛，里面有成千上万个大大小小的侍者在为神服务，唱奏圣歌。然而神已经离去，但宗教仪式却依然如常地进行着，即使这毫无意义。
中午十二点。
一只狗在门前的走廊处哀嚎，颤抖。大门认出了狗的声音，给它开了门。曾经高大强壮的狗现在变得瘦骨嶙峋，伤痕累累。它走了进来，留下泥脚印。它身后是生气的机器鼠，它们在嗡嗡地打扫着，为了不得不拾起泥土而生气，为了麻烦而生气。
就连一片残叶都没有留在门口的机会，因为墙上的嵌板会马上打开，那些铜屑般的小鼠便呼啸而出，用它们那小小的钢钳夹起那些碍眼的灰尘、毛发或纸屑，并迅速衔回洞中。这些垃圾会经由一些管道进入地下室，落到燃烧的焚化炉里，焚化炉像邪恶的巴尔神，躲在阴暗的角落里。狗上了楼，朝着每道门狂吠，最后，和房子一样，意识到这里只剩下沉寂。
它闻了闻空气中的味道，便径直跑去刨厨房的门。门后，炉子上正烤着薄饼，整个房子满溢着烘烤和枫糖的香气。
这只狗口吐白沫，躺在门边，嗅着空气中的味道。它双眼冒火，疯狂地绕圈跑，咬自己的尾巴。它不停地绕圈，直到死去。它的尸体就在门廊那里躺了一个小时。
两点钟，一个声音响起。
终于察觉到了腐烂的气息，成群的老鼠轻轻地溜出来，如同被电风卷起的枯叶般轻盈。
两点十五分。
那只狗不见了。
地下室内，焚化炉里的火猛然变大，一道火光从烟囱中冒出。
两点三十五分。
桥牌桌从院子的墙上伸出来。牌一下子就自动洗好了，叠在垫子上。马提尼酒和鸡蛋沙拉三明治出现在栎木椅上。音乐响起，但桌子上没有任何动静，洗好的牌也没有人碰过。
四点零五分，桌子折叠好，像只巨大的蝴蝶一样飞回墙里。
四点三十分。儿童房的墙亮了起来，显现出许多发光的动物：黄色的长颈鹿、蓝色的狮子、粉色的羚羊、淡紫色的豹都在水晶状的物质上蹦蹦跳跳的。墙面是玻璃质的，所以透出的颜色五彩斑斓、如梦如幻。润滑良好的齿轮带动隐藏的胶片，墙上便出现了影像。儿童房的地板做得像一片葱郁青翠的草地，上面跳着一些铝制的蟑螂和铁制的蟋蟀，而在炎热静止的空气中，精美的红色纸蝴蝶则在动物散发出的扑鼻香气中翩翩飞舞！一个声音响起，像是大黄蜂窝被放进了黑暗的风箱所发出的声音，是懒洋洋的狮子所发出的咕噜声。还有欧卡皮鹿的踏步声，以及丛林细雨飘落在夏日坚挺的草儿上的声音，犹如马蹄轻踏。现在，墙变成了延绵千里的炙热草地以及无边无际的温暖天空。动物们躲进了荆棘丛生的灌木丛和小水坑里。
现在是儿童时间。
五点。浴缸里装满了干净的热水。
六点，七点，八点。晚餐像变魔术般出现了，书房里传出“咔哒”一声，一个金属架内弹出一根雪茄。金属架旁边是一个壁炉，现在炉内的火烧得很旺，很暖。半英寸雪茄变成了灰烬，继续燃烧着，等待着。
九点。床上隐藏的电路开始发热，因为晚上这里会有点凉。
九点五分。书房的天花板上传来一个声音：
“麦克莱伦夫人，今晚您想听哪首诗？”
房子里鸦雀无声。
最后，这个声音说：“既然你没有表示，那我就随便选一首了。”
轻柔的背景音乐响起，应和着这个声音。“我记得你最喜欢的是莎拉·蒂斯黛尔……
细雨将至，泥土气息渐浓，
燕子在空中盘旋，高声啼鸣；
夜晚，池塘里的青蛙呱呱鸣唱，
野外的李树白花娇颤；
知更鸟将会披着火红的羽裳，
停立在低矮的栅栏上婉转低鸣；
没有生灵会知道曾发生过这场战争，也没有生灵
会关心它何时消停。
谁都不会在意，鸟儿不会在意，树木亦然，
即使人类已全部覆灭；
而当春姑娘在黎明时分苏醒时
她不会发现，我们人类已经消失于世。”
火焰在壁炉里燃烧着，雪茄已经化为一堆灰烬，静静地躺在烟灰缸里。空荡荡的椅子彼此相对，四周是无声的墙壁，音乐继续在播放。
晚上十点，房子开始走向毁灭。
《2026年8月：细雨将至》是布拉德伯里的经典短篇科幻故事集《火星纪事》（The Martian Chronicles）的其中一篇，讲述了在2026年8月的一天，一座自动化房子从井然有序走向灭亡的故事。房子里空无一人，房子却如常发出指令，按照固定程序为早已不复存在的主人服务，而房子最后也消亡在一场大火中。通过故事的各种细节描写，读者会发现一个可怕的事实：人类已经在一场核战争中灭亡了。该故事写于1950年，当时二战才结束不久，美国在日本投放的两颗原子弹的威力给世人留下了可怕的印象。作者通过这个故事告诫人类要警惕核战争，并讽刺了人类对于科技的过度依赖。本期节选了该故事的前半部分，让我们一起来细细品读。
August 2026： There Will Come Soft Rains
In the living room the voice-clock sang， Tick-tock， seven o’clock， time to get up， time to get up， seven o’clock！ as if it were afraid that nobody would. The morning house lay empty. The clock ticked on， repeating and repeating its sounds into the emptiness. Seven-nine， breakfast time， seven-nine！
In the kitchen the breakfast stove gave a hissing sigh and 1）ejected from its warm interior eight pieces of perfectly browned toast， eight eggs sunnyside up， sixteen slices of bacon， two coffees， and two cool glasses of milk.
“Today is August 4， 2026，” said a second voice from the kitchen ceiling， “in the city of Allendale， California.”It repeated the date three times for memory’s sake. “Today is Mr. Featherstone’s birthday. Today is the anniversary of Tilita’s marriage. Insurance is payable， as are the water， gas， and light bills.”
Somewhere in the walls， 2）relays clicked， memory tapes glided under electric eyes.
Eight-one， tick-tock， eight-one o’clock， off to school， off to work， run， run， eight-one！ But no doors slammed， no carpets took the soft 3）tread of rubber heels. It was raining outside. The weather box on the front door sang quietly：“Rain， rain， go away； rubbers， raincoats for today…”And the rain tapped on the empty house， echoing. Outside， the garage 4）chimed and lifted its door to reveal the waiting car. After a long while the door swung down again.
At eight-thirty the eggs were 5）shriveled and the toast was like stone. An aluminum wedge 6）scraped them into the sink， where hot water whirled them down a metal throat which digested and flushed them away to the distant sea. The dirty dishes were dropped into a hot washer and emerged twinkling dry.
Nine-fifteen， sang the clock， time to clean.
Out of 7）warrens in the wall， tiny robot mice 8）darted. The rooms were 9）acrawl with the small cleaning animals， all rubber and metal. They 10）thudded against chairs， whirling their mustached runners， 11）kneading the rug 12）nap， sucking gently at hidden dust. Then， like mysterious invaders， they popped into their 13）burrows. Their pink electric eyes faded. The house was clean.
Ten o’clock. The sun came out from behind the rain. The house stood alone in a city of rubble and ashes. This was the one house left standing. All night the ruined city gave off a radioactive glow which could be seen for miles.
Ten-fifteen. The garden 14）sprinklers whirled up in golden founts， filling the soft morning air with scatterings of brightness. The water 15）pelted windowpanes， running down the 16）charred west side where the house had been burned evenly free of its white paint. The entire west face of the house was black， save for five places. Here the 17）silhouette in paint of a man mowing a lawn. Here， as in a photograph， a woman bent to pick flowers. Still farther over， their images burned in wood in one titanic instant， a small boy， hands flung into the air； higher up， the image of a thrown ball， and opposite him a girl， hands raised to catch a ball which never came down. The five spots of paint—the man， the woman， the children， the ball—remained. The rest was a thin charcoaled layer.
The gentle sprinkler rain filled the garden with falling light.
Until this day however， how well the house had kept its peace. How carefully it had inquired， “Who goes there？ What’s the password？” and， getting no answer from lonely foxes and whining cats， it had shut up its windows and drawn 18）shades in an old maidenly preoccupation with self-protection which bordered on a mechanical 19）paranoia.
It quivered at each sound， the house did. If a sparrow brushed a window， the shade snapped up. The bird， startled， flew off！ No， not even a bird must touch the house！
The house was an 20）altar with ten thousand attendants， big， small， servicing， attending， in choirs. But the gods had gone away， and the ritual of the religion continued senselessly， uselessly.
Twelve noon.
A dog whined， shivering， on the front porch. The front door recognized the dog voice and opened. The dog， once huge and fleshy， but now gone to bone and covered with 21）sores， moved in and through the house， tracking mud. Behind it whirred angry mice， angry at having to pick up mud， angry at inconvenience.
For not a leaf fragment blew under the door but what the wall panels flipped open and the copper scrap rats flashed swiftly out. The offending dust， hair， or paper， seized in miniature steel jaws， was raced back into the burrows. There， down tubes which fed into the cellar， it was dropped into the sighing vent of an 22）incinerator which sat like evil 23）Baal in a dark corner. The dog ran upstairs， hysterically yelping to each door， at last realizing， as the house realized， that only silence was there. It sniffed the air and scratched the kitchen door. Behind the door， the stove was making pancakes which filled the house with a rich baked odor and the scent of maple syrup.
The dog frothed at the mouth， lying at the door， sniffing， its eyes turned to fire. It ran wildly in circles， biting at its tail， spun in a frenzy， and died. It lay in the parlor for an hour.
Two o’clock， sang a voice.
Delicately sensing decay at last， the regiments of mice hummed out as softly as blown gray leaves in an electrical wind.
Two-fifteen.
The dog was gone.
In the cellar， the incinerator glowed suddenly and a whirl of sparks leaped up the chimney.
Two thirty-five.
Bridge tables sprouted from 24）patio walls. Playing cards fluttered onto pads in a shower of pips. Martinis manifested on an oaken bench with egg-salad sandwiches. Music played. But the tables were silent and the cards untouched.
At four-five the tables folded like great butterflies back through the paneled walls.
Four-thirty. The nursery walls glowed. Animals took shape： yellow giraffes， blue lions， pink antelopes， lilac panthers 25）cavorting in crystal substance. The walls were glass. They looked upon every color and fantasy. Hidden films docked through well-oiled 26）sprockets， and the walls lived. The nursery floor was woven to resemble a crisp， cereal meadow. Over this ran aluminum roaches and iron crickets， and in the hot still air butterflies of delicate red tissue wavered among the sharp aroma of animal 27）spoors！ There was the sound like a great matted yellow hive of bees within a dark 28）bellows， the lazy bumble of a purring lion. And there was the patter of okapi feet and the murmur of a fresh jungle rain， like hoofs， falling upon the summer-starched grass. Now the walls dissolved into a distance of parched weed， mile on mile， and warm endless sky. The animals drew away into thorn 29）brakes and water holes.
It was the children’s hour.
Five o’clock. The bath filled with clear hot water.
Six， seven， eight o’clock. The dinner dishes manipulated like magic tricks， and in the study a click. In the metal stand outside the hearth where a fire now blazed up warmly， a cigar popped out， half an inch of soft gray ash on it， smoking， waiting.
Nine o’clock. The beds warmed their hidden circuits， for nights were cool here. Nine-five. A voice spoke from the study ceiling：
“Mrs. McClellan， which poem would you like this evening？”
The house was silent.
The voice said at last， “Since you express no preference， I shall select a poem at random.”
Quiet music rose to back the voice. “Sara Teasdale. As I recall， your favorite…
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground，
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound；
And frogs in the pools singing at night，
And wild plum trees in tremulous white；
Robins will wear their feathery fire，
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire；
And not one will know of the war， not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind， neither bird nor tree，
if mankind perished utterly；
And Spring herself， when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.”
The fire burned on the stone hearth and the cigar fell away into a mound of quiet ash on its tray. The empty chairs faced each other between the silent walls， and the music played.
At ten o’clock the house began to die.
客厅里，人声闹钟高声响起，滴答，七点了，该起床了，该起床了，七点了！仿佛害怕没人会起床似的。早上，房子里空无一人。闹钟继续滴答滴答地行走，在空荡荡的房间里一遍遍回响着。七点九分了，早餐时间到了，七点九分了！
厨房里，早餐机响起了嘶的一声，接着，热烘烘的机器里便弹出八块火候正好的棕色面包，八个单煎一面的荷包蛋，16片培根，两杯咖啡和两杯常温牛奶。
“今天是2026年8月4日，”厨房的天花板上传来第二个声音，“加利福尼亚州艾伦代尔市。”为了让人记住，这个声音把日期重复了三遍。“今天是费瑟斯通先生的生日。今天是提莉塔的结婚周年纪念日。今天该交保险费了，还有水费、煤气费和电费。”
在墙上的某个地方，继电器启动了，记忆磁带在电子眼的监控下开始滑动。
八点一分了，滴答，八点一分了，上学了，上班了，赶快，赶快，八点一分了！但屋里没有听到关门声，也没有听到橡胶鞋在地毯上走动的声音。现在外面在下雨。门前的天气预报机静静地唱着：“雨啊，雨啊，快走吧；今天别忘了带橡胶鞋和雨衣……”雨滴打在空房子上，发出回声。外面，车库轰然开启，露出了在等待的车辆。等了好一会儿，车库的门再次缓缓落下。
八点三十分，煎蛋干瘪了，面包变得像石头一样硬。一块楔型铝刮把它们刮入水槽，接着它们被热水冲入金属管道内，被消化，被冲向遥远的大海。脏盘子被放到热乎乎的洗碗机内，出来后变得洁亮如新，没有水迹。
九点十五分，闹钟响起，该打扫房间了。
许多小机器鼠从墙上的小洞里窜出来。房间里爬满了这种负责打扫的小动物，都是橡胶和金属制的。它们砰砰地敲击椅子，转动机械触须，把地毯脱落的绒毛揉捏成团，轻轻吸去藏在缝中的灰尘。然后，如神秘的入侵者一般，它们跳回了自己的洞里。它们那闪着粉光的电子眼也暗了下来。房子被打扫得干干净净。
十点。雨中，太阳出来了。这所房子独自伫立在这座已成废墟的荒城中。这是唯一仅存的房子。整夜，这座荒城发出一道放射性亮光，数英里内的地方都可看到。
十点十五分。洒水器在金色的储水缸里缓缓旋起，为清晨柔和的空气注入亮白的水花。水流打向窗户的玻璃，沿着房子的西墙流下，那里的白漆都已被大火烧毁了。除了五个地方，房子西墙的其他地方都是一片焦黑。这里，有一个正在修剪草坪的男人的黑色剪影。这里，像是在一张照片里，一个女人正弯腰摘花。远一点的地方，一个小男孩双手伸向空中；高一点的地方，有一个被扔出的球，男孩对面是一个女孩，她正抬起双手准备去接那颗永远也不会落下的球，他们的剪影在那巨大威力袭来的一瞬被烧蚀在木墙上了。那五处地方的油漆——男人、女人、孩子、球的影像所在之处——还没掉落。墙上的其他地方都已经成了一层厚厚的黑炭。
洒水器喷洒出的细细水花闪着磷光淅沥而下，溢满了整个花园。 然而，直至今日，这座房子依然安然无恙。它总会对来访者细细询问：“谁在门外？密码是什么？”孤单的狐狸与嘶叫的猫没有给出答案，房子就关上窗户，拉上窗帘，像个得了机器妄想症的老处女一样，把自己保护得滴水不漏。
任何动静都能让这座房子颤抖。如果麻雀停在窗户旁，窗帘就会马上拉起。鸟儿就被吓走了！就连一只鸟都无法接近这座房子！
这座房子宛如一个神坛，里面有成千上万个大大小小的侍者在为神服务，唱奏圣歌。然而神已经离去，但宗教仪式却依然如常地进行着，即使这毫无意义。
中午十二点。
一只狗在门前的走廊处哀嚎，颤抖。大门认出了狗的声音，给它开了门。曾经高大强壮的狗现在变得瘦骨嶙峋，伤痕累累。它走了进来，留下泥脚印。它身后是生气的机器鼠，它们在嗡嗡地打扫着，为了不得不拾起泥土而生气，为了麻烦而生气。
就连一片残叶都没有留在门口的机会，因为墙上的嵌板会马上打开，那些铜屑般的小鼠便呼啸而出，用它们那小小的钢钳夹起那些碍眼的灰尘、毛发或纸屑，并迅速衔回洞中。这些垃圾会经由一些管道进入地下室，落到燃烧的焚化炉里，焚化炉像邪恶的巴尔神，躲在阴暗的角落里。狗上了楼，朝着每道门狂吠，最后，和房子一样，意识到这里只剩下沉寂。
它闻了闻空气中的味道，便径直跑去刨厨房的门。门后，炉子上正烤着薄饼，整个房子满溢着烘烤和枫糖的香气。
这只狗口吐白沫，躺在门边，嗅着空气中的味道。它双眼冒火，疯狂地绕圈跑，咬自己的尾巴。它不停地绕圈，直到死去。它的尸体就在门廊那里躺了一个小时。
两点钟，一个声音响起。
终于察觉到了腐烂的气息，成群的老鼠轻轻地溜出来，如同被电风卷起的枯叶般轻盈。
两点十五分。
那只狗不见了。
地下室内，焚化炉里的火猛然变大，一道火光从烟囱中冒出。
两点三十五分。
桥牌桌从院子的墙上伸出来。牌一下子就自动洗好了，叠在垫子上。马提尼酒和鸡蛋沙拉三明治出现在栎木椅上。音乐响起，但桌子上没有任何动静，洗好的牌也没有人碰过。
四点零五分，桌子折叠好，像只巨大的蝴蝶一样飞回墙里。
四点三十分。儿童房的墙亮了起来，显现出许多发光的动物：黄色的长颈鹿、蓝色的狮子、粉色的羚羊、淡紫色的豹都在水晶状的物质上蹦蹦跳跳的。墙面是玻璃质的，所以透出的颜色五彩斑斓、如梦如幻。润滑良好的齿轮带动隐藏的胶片，墙上便出现了影像。儿童房的地板做得像一片葱郁青翠的草地，上面跳着一些铝制的蟑螂和铁制的蟋蟀，而在炎热静止的空气中，精美的红色纸蝴蝶则在动物散发出的扑鼻香气中翩翩飞舞！一个声音响起，像是大黄蜂窝被放进了黑暗的风箱所发出的声音，是懒洋洋的狮子所发出的咕噜声。还有欧卡皮鹿的踏步声，以及丛林细雨飘落在夏日坚挺的草儿上的声音，犹如马蹄轻踏。现在，墙变成了延绵千里的炙热草地以及无边无际的温暖天空。动物们躲进了荆棘丛生的灌木丛和小水坑里。
现在是儿童时间。
五点。浴缸里装满了干净的热水。
六点，七点，八点。晚餐像变魔术般出现了，书房里传出“咔哒”一声，一个金属架内弹出一根雪茄。金属架旁边是一个壁炉，现在炉内的火烧得很旺，很暖。半英寸雪茄变成了灰烬，继续燃烧着，等待着。
九点。床上隐藏的电路开始发热，因为晚上这里会有点凉。
九点五分。书房的天花板上传来一个声音：
“麦克莱伦夫人，今晚您想听哪首诗？”
房子里鸦雀无声。
最后，这个声音说：“既然你没有表示，那我就随便选一首了。”
轻柔的背景音乐响起，应和着这个声音。“我记得你最喜欢的是莎拉·蒂斯黛尔……
细雨将至，泥土气息渐浓，
燕子在空中盘旋，高声啼鸣；
夜晚，池塘里的青蛙呱呱鸣唱，
野外的李树白花娇颤；
知更鸟将会披着火红的羽裳，
停立在低矮的栅栏上婉转低鸣；
没有生灵会知道曾发生过这场战争，也没有生灵
会关心它何时消停。
谁都不会在意，鸟儿不会在意，树木亦然，
即使人类已全部覆灭；
而当春姑娘在黎明时分苏醒时
她不会发现，我们人类已经消失于世。”
火焰在壁炉里燃烧着，雪茄已经化为一堆灰烬，静静地躺在烟灰缸里。空荡荡的椅子彼此相对，四周是无声的墙壁，音乐继续在播放。
晚上十点，房子开始走向毁灭。