s 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 tabaret and,
most important of all, the marine print.

Mr. Chambers loved that picture. It had depth, he always said. It
showed an old sailing ship in the foreground on a placid sea. Far
in the distance, almost on the horizon line, was the vague
outline of a larger vessel.

There were other pictures, too. The forest scene above the
fireplace, the old English prints in the corner where he sat, the
Currier and Ives above the radio. But the ship print was directly
in his line of vision. He could see it without turning his head.
He had put it ther