2026年8月：細(xì)雨將至

雷·布拉德伯里（Ray Bradbury，1920—2012），世界公認(rèn)的科幻大師，曾獲世界奇幻文學(xué)協(xié)會(huì)終生成就獎(jiǎng)、美國(guó)科幻小說(shuō)作家協(xié)會(huì)大師獎(jiǎng)等眾多獎(jiǎng)項(xiàng)。布拉德伯里一生創(chuàng)作了數(shù)百篇短篇小說(shuō)，出版近五十本書，還寫了大量的詩(shī)歌、隨筆、歌劇、戲劇、影視劇本。

《2026年8月：細(xì)雨將至》是布拉德伯里的經(jīng)典短篇科幻故事集《火星紀(jì)事》（The Martian Chronicles）的其中一篇，講述了在2026年8月的一天，一座自動(dòng)化房子從井然有序走向滅亡的故事。房子里空無(wú)一人，房子卻如常發(fā)出指令，按照固定程序?yàn)樵缫巡粡?fù)存在的主人服務(wù)，而房子最后也消亡在一場(chǎng)大火中。通過(guò)故事的各種細(xì)節(jié)描寫，讀者會(huì)發(fā)現(xiàn)一個(gè)可怕的事實(shí)：人類已經(jīng)在一場(chǎng)核戰(zhàn)爭(zhēng)中滅亡了。該故事寫于1950年，當(dāng)時(shí)二戰(zhàn)才結(jié)束不久，美國(guó)在日本投放的兩顆原子彈的威力給世人留下了可怕的印象。作者通過(guò)這個(gè)故事告誡人類要警惕核戰(zhàn)爭(zhēng)，并諷刺了人類對(duì)于科技的過(guò)度依賴。本期節(jié)選了該故事的前半部分，讓我們一起來(lái)細(xì)細(xì)品讀。

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.

客廳里，人聲鬧鐘高聲響起，滴答，七點(diǎn)了，該起床了，該起床了，七點(diǎn)了！仿佛害怕沒人會(huì)起床似的。早上，房子里空無(wú)一人。鬧鐘繼續(xù)滴答滴答地行走，在空蕩蕩的房間里一遍遍回響著。七點(diǎn)九分了，早餐時(shí)間到了，七點(diǎn)九分了！

廚房里，早餐機(jī)響起了嘶的一聲，接著，熱烘烘的機(jī)器里便彈出八塊火候正好的棕色面包，八個(gè)單煎一面的荷包蛋，16片培根，兩杯咖啡和兩杯常溫牛奶。

“今天是2026年8月4日，”廚房的天花板上傳來(lái)第二個(gè)聲音，“加利福尼亞州艾倫代爾市。……