The Street That Wasn't There by Clifford D. Simak and Carl Richard Jacobi
Produced by Greg Weeks, Sankar Viswanathan, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Comet, July 1941. Extensive research didnot uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publicationwas renewed.
The Street That
Wasn't There
by CLIFFORD D. SIMAK and CARL JACOBI
* * * * *
Mr. Jonathon Chambers left his house on Maple Street at exactlyseven o'clock in the evening and set out on the daily walk he hadtaken, at the same time, come rain or snow, for twenty solidyears.
The walk never varied. He paced two blocks down Maple Street,stopped at the Red Star confectionery to buy a Rose Troferoperfecto, then walked to the end of the fourth block on Maple.There he turned right on Lexington, followed Lexington to Oak,down Oak and so by way of Lincoln back to Maple again and to hishome.
He didn't walk fast. He took his time. He always returned to hisfront door at exactly 7:45. No one ever stopped to talk withhim. Even the man at the Red Star confectionery, where he boughthis cigar, remained silent while the purchase was being made. Mr.Chambers merely tapped on the glass top of the counter with acoin, the man reached in and brought forth the box, and Mr.Chambers took his cigar. That was all.
For people long ago had gathered that Mr. Chambers desired to beleft alone. The newer generation of townsfolk called iteccentricity. Certain uncouth persons had a different word forit. The oldsters remembered that this queer looking individualwith his black silk muffler, rosewood cane and bowler hat oncehad been a professor at State University.
A professor of metaphysics, they seemed to recall, or some suchoutlandish subject. At any rate a furore of some sort wasconnected with his name ... at the time an academic scandal. Hehad written a book, and he had taught the subject matter of thatvolume to his classes. What that subject matter was, had long beenforgotten, but whatever it was had been considered sufficientlyrevolutionary to cost Mr. Chambers his post at the university.
A silver moon shone over the chimney tops and a chill, impishOctober wind was rustling the dead leaves when Mr. Chambersstarted out at seven o'clock.
It was a good night, he told himself, smelling the clean, crispair of autumn and the faint pungence of distant wood smoke.
He walked unhurriedly, swinging his cane a bit less jauntily thantwenty years ago. He tucked the muffler more securely under therusty old topcoat and pulled his bowler hat more firmly on hishead.
He noticed that the street light at the corner of Maple andJefferson was out and he grumbled a little to himself when he wasforced to step off the walk to circle a boarded-off section ofnewly-laid concrete work before the driveway of 816.
It seemed that he reached the corner of Lexington and Maple justa bit too quickly, but he told himself that this couldn't be. Forhe never did that. For twenty years, since the year following hisexpulsion from the university, he had lived by the clock.
The same thing, at the same time, day after day. He had notdeliberately set upon such a life of routine. A bachelor, livingalone with sufficient money to supply his humble needs, the timedexistence had grown on him gradually.
So he turned on Lexington and back on Oak. The dog at the cornerof Oak and Jefferson was waiting for him once again and came outsnarling and growling, snapping at his heels. But Mr. Chamberspretended not to notice and the beast gave up the chase.
A radio was blaring down the street and faint wisps of what itwas blurting floated to Mr. Chambers.
"... still taking place ... Empire State building disappeared ...thin air ... famed scientist, Dr. Edmund Harcourt...."
The wind whipped the muted words away and Mr. Chambers grumbledto himself. Another one of those fantastic radio dramas,probably. He remembered one from many years before, somethingabout the Martians. And Harcourt! What did Harcourt have to dowith it? He was one of the men who had ridiculed the bookMr. Chambers had written.
But he pushed speculation away, sniffed the clean, crisp air again,looked at the familiar things that materialized out of the lateautumn 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 cornerof Oak and Lincoln and they were talking excitedly. Mr. Chamberscaught some excited words: "It's happening everywhere.... Whatdo you think it is.... The scientists can't explain...."
But as Mr. Chambers neared them they fell into what seemed anabashed silence and watched him pass. He, on his part, gave themno sign of recognition. That was the way it had been for manyyears, ever since the people had become convinced that he did notwish to talk.
One of the men half started forward as if to speak to him, butthen stepped back and Mr. Chambers continued on his walk.
Back at his own front door he stopped and as he had done athousand times before drew forth the heavy gold watch from hispocket.
He started violently. It was only 7:30!
For long minutes he stood there staring at the watch inaccusation. The timepiece hadn't stopped, for it still tickedaudibly.
But 15 minutes too soon! For twenty years, day in, day out, hehad 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 purchasehis evening smoke.
Shaken, muttering to himself, Mr. Chambers let himself in hishouse and locked the door behind him.
He hung his hat and coat on the rack in the hall and walkedslowly into the living room. Dropping into his favorite chair, heshook his head in bewilderment.
Silence filled the room. A silence that was measured by theticking of the old fashioned pendulum clock on the mantelpiece.
But silence was no strange thing to Mr. Chambers. Once he hadloved music ... the kind of music he could get by tuning insymphonic orchestras on the radio. But the radio stood silent inthe corner, the cord out of its socket. Mr. Chambers had pulledit out many years before. To be precise, upon the night when thesymphonic broadcast had been interrupted to give a news flash.
He had stopped reading newspapers and magazines too, had exiledhimself to a few city blocks. And as the years flowed by, thatself exile had become a prison, an intangible, impassable wallbounded 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 fromhearing things. Things the newsboy shouted on the streets, thingsthe men talked about on the drugstore corner when they didn't seehim coming.
And so he knew that this was the year 1960 and that the wars inEurope and Asia had flamed to an end to be followed by a terribleplague, a plague that even now was sweeping through country aftercountry like wild fire, decimating populations. A plagueundoubtedly induced by hunger and privation and the miseries ofwar.
But those things he put away as items far removed from his ownsmall world. He disregarded them. He pretended he had never heardof 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. Hehad forgotten his cigar.
Huddled in the chair, he frowned slowly. It was disquieting tohave something like that happen. There must be something wrong.Had his long exile finally turned his mind ... perhaps just aver
No, he hadn't. Take this room, for example. After twenty years ithad 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 andstained glass lamp; the mantelpiece with the dusty bric-a-brac;the pendulum clock that told the time of day as well as the dayof 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. Itshowed an old sailing ship in the foreground on a placid sea. Farin the distance, almost on the horizon line, was the vagueoutline of a larger vessel.
There were other pictures, too. The forest scene above thefireplace, the old English prints in the corner where he sat, theCurrier and Ives above the radio. But the ship print was directlyin his line of vision. He could see it without turning his head.He had put it there because he liked it best.
Further reverie became an effort as Mr. Chambers felt