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The Street That Wasn't There
written by "Simak, Clifford D., 1904-1988"
... shafts of multicolored light probed huge streamers and ellipses above the higher levels. And beyond, like a final backdrop, rose a titanic wall. It was from that wall ... from its crenelated parapets and battlements that Mr. Chambers felt the eyes peering at him. Thousands of eyes glaring down with but a single purpose. And as he continued to look, something else seemed to take form above that wall. A design this time, that swirled and writhed in the ribbons of radiance and rapidly coalesced into strange geometric features, without definite line or detail. A colossal face, a face of indescribable power and evil, it was, staring down with malevolent composure. Then the city and the face slid out of focus; the vision faded like a darkened magic-lantern, and the grayness moved in again. Mr. Chambers pushed open the door of his house. But he did not lock it. There was no need of locks ... not any more. A few coals of fire still smouldered in the grate and going there, he stirred them up, raked away the ash, piled on more wood. The flames leaped merrily, dancing in the chimney's throat. Without removing his hat and coat, he sank exhausted in his favorite chair, closed his eyes then opened them again. He sighed with relief as he saw the room was unchanged. Everything in its accustomed place: the clock, the lamp, the elephant ash tray, the marine print on the wall. Everything was as it should be. The clock measured the silence with its measured ticking; it chimed abruptly and the vase sent up its usual sympathetic vibration. This was his room, he thought. Rooms acquire the personality of the person who lives in them, become a part of him. This was his world, his own private world, and as such it would be the last to go. But how long could he ... his brain ... maintain its existence? Mr. Chambers stared at the marine print and for a moment a little breath of reassurance returned to him. They couldn't take this a...

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