The Street That Wasnt There | Page 2

something about the
Martians. And Harcourt! What did Harcourt have to do with it? He was
one of the men who had ridiculed the book Mr. Chambers had written.
But he pushed speculation away, sniffed the clean, crisp air again,
looked at the familiar things that materialized out of the late autumn
darkness as he walked along. For there was nothing ... absolutely
nothing in the world ... that he would let upset him. That was a tenet he
had laid down twenty years ago.
* * * * *
There was a crowd of men in front of the drugstore at the corner of Oak
and Lincoln and they were talking excitedly. Mr. Chambers caught
some excited words: "It's happening everywhere.... What do you think
it is.... The scientists can't explain...."
But as Mr. Chambers neared them they fell into what seemed an
abashed silence and watched him pass. He, on his part, gave them no
sign of recognition. That was the way it had been for many years, ever
since the people had become convinced that he did not wish to talk.
One of the men half started forward as if to speak to him, but then
stepped back and Mr. Chambers continued on his walk.
Back at his own front door he stopped and as he had done a thousand
times before drew forth the heavy gold watch from his pocket.

He started violently. It was only 7:30!
For long minutes he stood there staring at the watch in accusation. The
timepiece hadn't stopped, for it still ticked audibly.
But 15 minutes too soon! For twenty years, day in, day out, he had
started out at seven and returned at a quarter of eight. Now....
It wasn't until then that he realized something else was wrong. He had
no cigar. For the first time he had neglected to purchase his evening
smoke.
Shaken, muttering to himself, Mr. Chambers let himself in his house
and locked the door behind him.
He hung his hat and coat on the rack in the hall and walked slowly into
the living room. Dropping into his favorite chair, he shook his head in
bewilderment.
Silence filled the room. A silence that was measured by the ticking of
the old fashioned pendulum clock on the mantelpiece.
But silence was no strange thing to Mr. Chambers. Once he had loved
music ... the kind of music he could get by tuning in symphonic
orchestras on the radio. But the radio stood silent in the corner, the cord
out of its socket. Mr. Chambers had pulled it out many years before. To
be precise, upon the night when the symphonic broadcast had been
interrupted to give a news flash.
He had stopped reading newspapers and magazines too, had exiled
himself to a few city blocks. And as the years flowed by, that self exile
had become a prison, an intangible, impassable wall bounded by four
city blocks by three. Beyond them lay utter, unexplainable terror.
Beyond them he never went.
But recluse though he was, he could not on occasion escape from
hearing things. Things the newsboy shouted on the streets, things the
men talked about on the drugstore corner when they didn't see him

coming.
And so he knew that this was the year 1960 and that the wars in Europe
and Asia had flamed to an end to be followed by a terrible plague, a
plague that even now was sweeping through country after country like
wild fire, decimating populations. A plague undoubtedly induced by
hunger and privation and the miseries of war.
But those things he put away as items far removed from his own small
world. He disregarded them. He pretended he had never heard of them.
Others might discuss and worry over them if they wished. To him they
simply did not matter.
But there were two things tonight that did matter. Two curious,
incredible events. He had arrived home fifteen minutes early. He had
forgotten his cigar.
Huddled in the chair, he frowned slowly. It was disquieting to have
something like that happen. There must be something wrong. Had his
long exile finally turned his mind ... perhaps just a very little ... enough
to make him queer? Had he lost his sense of proportion, of perspective?
No, he hadn't. Take this room, for example. After twenty years it had
come to be as much a part of him as the clothes he wore. Every detail
of the room was engraved in his mind with ... clarity; the old center leg
table with its green covering and stained glass lamp; the mantelpiece
with the dusty bric-a-brac; the pendulum clock that told the time of day
as well as the day of the week and month; the elephant ash tray on the