The remainder of the period seemed to pass without leaving an impression on his memory, and although he was certain afterward that he had asked the normal questions to begin discussions and elucidated correctly the few points referred to him, he could recall nothing of it when the class was shuffling out into the hall. He remained at the console, waiting to see if the dark figure at the back of the room had left with the others, and by some trick of thought he felt he had been watching the proceedings himself through the eyes behind those black holes, and had found them remote and inconsequential.

  The dark figure had not gone, but was still seated and, it seemed, staring at him across the long rows of empty chairs.

  This was his last class of the day, and he was conscious of an overpowering urge to finish it without a disturbance; to go home and talk to Ruth and rest. The eyeholes which were the only visible feature of that strangely shaped, hooded head seemed to hold no malice or even impulse of activity, and for a moment he wondered if the student behind them could be asleep. Slowly he got up and walked toward an exit, ignoring him as well as he could. He reached the door and risked a glance over his shoulder. The black figure was standing now; he went out, grateful for the soft shushing the door made behind him.

  He was halfway to the elevator when he heard the slow tread of heavily shod feet, very different from the patter of sandals or bare soles. He walked faster, pressed the elevator button, and was fortunate enough to have the doors open immediately. When they closed, the black figure was still fifteen feet or so away.

  His bicycle was in the faculty rack at the south end of the campus and he made his way to it as quickly as he could, looking over his shoulder from time to time with the illogical feeling that he was still being followed. Somehow the sight of his own name, David P. Paramore, on the registration tag dangling from the handlebars, reassured him. He mounted and pedaled off toward home.

  As always there was a multiplicity of bikes and pedal carts on the streets, plus a sprinkling of the slow and costly electric cars and a few heavily taxed internal combustion trucks, mostly diesels. Since the government did not care much if the members of the liberal arts faculty survived a bomb blast or not, the underground on-campus apartments were the prerogatives of members of the scientific departments. He had worked his way through the traffic for nearly an hour and was approaching his own neighborhood before he glimpsed the dark figure far behind him. The student under that black cloth, whoever he was, had a bike too; a much newer one than his own, just as his legs were no doubt younger and his wind better. Block by block he gained steadily until he was not more than a few seconds behind.

  A pushcart man from whom David sometimes bought vegetables waved from the curb: “Hiya, Professor, what’s y’hurry?” and then was gone, a blur of unshaven face and glinting teeth. Twenty years ago he had ridden these same streets in this same way, commuting to the campus, thinking of the great day on which he would get his doctorate and anticipating a meeting with Ruth at the Student Center for lunch; and it suddenly occurred to him to wonder why indeed he was hurrying, now that all the goals he had set himself were reached in emptiness and it was possible to set no more. What could the student under the black cloth do to him that time had not? For a moment he slacked his pace, then the repulsion he had felt earlier for that enigmatic figure returned and he bent over the handlebars again, the breath whistling in his chest.

  The house his mother had left him was two-storied, the ground floor of brick veneer, the second of the overhanging wooden construction the contractors of her period had found so cheap to build and so attractive to buyers. He careened up onto the lawn as recklessly as a boy, left his bicycle lying on the grass instead of pulling it up onto the porch, and slammed and locked the door behind him.

  Ruth had heard him, and she called to him from her room at the top of the stairs. After a moment he began the daily ritual of his visit with her, mounting the steps one at a time and pausing a little to catch his breath at each.

  She had fluffed and arranged her hair for him today, and applied the cosmetics she kept on the stand beside her bed. Seeing her smile, the little attempts she had made to please him, he knew he could not tell her what had happened today; then he saw the smile fade and remembered that Ruth had always known when anything went wrong for him. It would be kinder to tell her than to leave her in suspense.

  Sitting on the bed beside her he described everything: the shrouded figure coming into his classroom, the pursuit home.

  “But it’s so easy!” she said when he had finished. She had held his hand pressed between hers as he talked, and now she gave it a little pat. “They did it before, years ago—when you and I were in school ourselves. A boy got into a big black sack and began attending classes that way; he wouldn’t tell anyone who he was, or speak above a mumble at all. At first everyone laughed, and then when he kept coming day after day like that they were rude to him and began to play cruel jokes. Finally when he still wouldn’t tell them anything they just ignored him. Then at the end of the term it came out that it was an experiment some graduate students had worked out with one of the men in the psychology department.”

  He looked at her, wanting to believe.

  “It’s so obvious, David. Someone has revived that old experiment. We say we’re so much freer and more humane than people used to be, but are we really? Well, he’s going to make the same test again and see if the results are any different. David, don’t look so frightened.”

  “Why did he wait for me after class, then? Why did he follow me home?”

  She squeezed his hand, as though trying to show physically her sincerity. “He wanted to see how you’d react, so he had to give you time to react in. And I don’t believe he followed you at all. Don’t you see, he couldn’t take off the bag on campus, or someone would see who he was; he was probably on his way home, and it just happens to be down our street. There are lots of those boarding houses for students who can’t get dorm space scattered all over.”

  He said nothing, but she could see he was still unconvinced.

  “He didn’t actually stop here, did he, David?”

  “I didn’t wait to see.” He was already ashamed of having run. “I just went inside.”

  “There, you see! He hasn’t rung the bell or anything, has he? Or tried to climb through a window? Go out and look around for him. I’ll bet you can’t find him anywhere.”

  He did not go outside, or even look through the windows that evening, but nothing happened to prove Ruth incorrect. He did his usual housework, watched television with her for an hour, and read himself to sleep.

  The next morning the dark, shapeless figure was waiting for him, and it attended every class he gave for the next two days.

  He made an appointment with Saunders, the head of his department. Saunders’ secretary, it seemed to him, looked at him oddly as he came in, but he managed to smile at her while she spoke into the intercom.

  Saunders fancied himself a sportsman and had had his office decorated that way, absurd as it was for a room a hundred and fifty feet below ground. Stuffed fish and color photographs of glacial lakes adorned the walls; there was even a copy of Sassoon’s Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man, bound in scuffed leather and left lying conspicuously on top of a microfilm cabinet. David had always felt ill at ease in this room, psychically shaken by its falsity.

  Saunders was leaning back in his swivel chair and staring at the ceiling as he came in, and did not immediately look at him. “What is it, Paramore? The girl said you wanted to see me. Sit down.”

  The chairs were covered with vinyl made to look like cowhide and rather too strongly impregnated with the real substance’s odor. David settled himself gingerly in one as Saunders shifted his weight to tilt his seat forward until he could see him. “Well, what is it? Paramore, you look awful. Are you sick?”

  As briefly as he could he described what had been happening for the past three days. When he had finished Saunders remained silent.

  “Can’t you see?” David leaned forward, trying to make the man understand. “It’s an attempt to entrap me, or the department, or the school. They’re waiting for us to do something, or to say something that can be used against us. Then there’ll be another riot, just like the old days. Speeches—demonstrations—and when it’s all over—”

  “We haven’t had many riots since we moved the campus underground,” Saunders said mildly. “After all, they can’t break our windows when we haven’t got any, and the belts in the corridors just keep sweeping along anybody who sits down on them until they get dumped off at the end. When did you say this started?”

  “Monday.” He had lost. Saunders was not willing to recognize what they were trying to do.

  “You say he sleeps on your porch at night?” Saunders was shuffling through the papers in a desk drawer and did not look at him as he spoke.

  “Yes.” It was an effort to prevent his voice from cracking. “Yes, just like a dog someone won’t let into the house at night, with his back against the front door.”

  “But your wife has never seen him?”

  “What difference does that make? Ruth is an invalid; you must know that.”

  Saunders had found the paper he had been looking for, and disregarded the last remark. Reading it upside down from his position on the far side of the desk, David saw that it was his own class schedule. “What do you want with that?” he asked.

  “Monday the subject of your class was Swann’s Way. One of your favorites, isn’t it?”

  “I wrote my thesis—”

  “And Tuesday you covered A l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs—Within a Budding Grove; yesterday’s schedule calls for The Guermantes Way, and today—”

  “Cities of the Plain. What does that have to do with it?”

  “It strikes me that this figure has only appeared—thus far—when you are doing Proust. You said he followed you home. Does he also follow you into the Language Research Complex here? Is he outside in my reception room now?”

  “No.” David shook his head. “I hadn’t really thought of it that way, but you’re right; he doesn’t come here. He rides half a block behind me when I’m coming in the morning, then I lose him in the corridors on my way here to L.R.C., and don’t see him again until I go to class.” Suddenly he understood what the other man was driving at. “You think it’s my imagination, don’t you?” It was shocking, humiliating. He felt the blood surge into his face and was afraid to allow himself to say anything more for fear that he would actually insult Saunders.

  Saunders looked distressed. “We live in an age of tension, Paramore. You know the slogan: ‘Only one out of every twelve will never suffer mental illness.’ A person like yourself, hardworking, conscientious, perhaps a little introverted, is almost certain to have a little trouble sooner or later. Why do you think we have machines in the coffee shop selling the psycho-specific drugs?”

  “But other people see him too. The students do, in class—they look toward him, they giggle.” It was preposterous, but it was that which made him feel so helpless; if Saunders could not see the absurdity of his accusation at first glance, how could he be made to see it?

  “But they don’t speak to him?”

  “I told you that. I don’t speak to him myself; I don’t want to give him an opening.”

  “Undergraduates are liable to let their eyes wander during class, and they laugh at almost anything.” Saunders’ tone was soothing. “Perhaps if there were nothing there they might look at a spot toward which you yourself seemed to be staring.”

  “I refuse to continue this.” He stood up.

  Saunders half rose himself, thrusting out a hand in a gesture of apology. “Listen now, about this black figure; will you do what I ask you to?”

  “You’re head of the department.”

  “Fine. I want you to take the rest of the day, and the next four days, off from teaching. I’ll have Henderson take your classes. And don’t forget what I said about the psycho-specifics. Here—” Digging into a pocket, Saunders produced an opened packet still containing two rather linty para-reserpine capsules. “These ought to hold you until you can get some of your own; I’ll buy some more when I go to lunch.”

  David wanted to object, but only managed to say, “It is real.”

  “If it’s real, fine. I hope it is. And if so it will come to the classroom just as you say it has for the past three days and Henderson will report it to me. But in any case you should have a rest, Dave; you look ready to drop.”

  He threw the para-reserpine into the first trash recepticle he passed in the corridor, but following Saunders’ instructions did not go to his classes that day, and when he pedaled home in the evening he was not followed. Presumably, he reflected, the student under the black cloth was following poor old Henderson. He wondered how Henderson liked it.

  That evening he talked to Ruth as little as he decently could, saying nothing about his interview with Saunders. Long after she had dropped off to sleep, still propped up by pillows in her big bed, he remained awake, thinking about the black shape and speculating on the exact nature of the plot in which it must be involved. It was nearly daylight when it occurred to him that he might be able to frustrate it and that it was indeed his duty to do so.

  After much searching in the attic he found an old robe which would serve his purpose, and, providentially in the same box, a square-topped hat that would lend the correct shape to his head. The next morning, after he had carried up Ruth’s breakfast, he put them into a large grocery sack and rode to the campus with it clamped under his arm. Once in the study cell assigned him, he stowed it in an empty file drawer. A few minutes before the beginning of the final lecture period he left unobtrusively with the bundle again under his arm.

  In a rest room he put on the hat and flung the cloak over his head, reminded of how as a child he had believed that if his own eyes were concealed he could walk unseen by others, like Gollum with the One Ring. The old robe smelled musty and the cuts he had made in it were difficult to keep aligned with his eyes, but the hooded student, whoever he might be, would surely take him for a second member of the conspiracy sent to help him. He stepped onto the belt, and a moment later he was opening the door of the classroom that was normally his own.

  The other had not come yet. Neither, it seemed, had Henderson. He took a seat in the back of the room, grateful that the students seemed disposed to ignore him.

  The lights dimmed, and in the split second before the projector switched itself on, the realization that he knew what was about to come came rushing down upon him like a wind from the mountains, shrieking in his face.

  In bright primary colors the screen showed the rumpled bedroom with its cork-lined walls and the bearded man in the bed. Involuntarily the words formed themselves in his mind: For a long time I used to go to bed early. Sometimes when I had put out my candle, my eyes would close so quickly that I had not even time to say “I’m going to sleep.”… Sometimes, too, just as Eve was created from a rib of Adam, so a woman would come into existence while I was sleeping, conceived from some strain in the position of my limbs… When a man is asleep, he has in a circle round him the chain of the hours, the sequence of the years, the order of the heavenly hosts. It was the beginning of Swann’s Way again.

  He knew what was happening now, and when Mme. Swann’s victoria swung through the Porte Dauphine he crept silently out of the room to watch, invisible, his own bent form arrive on the belt; then reentered to see himself start with fear.

  Without lapse of time he found himself on his bicycle again, pursuing his own back under the towering white shapes of the sycamores. He pulled the gown from his face, letting it hang properly, and straightened the mortarboard on his head. Soon—the red and yellow leaves were racing past his ears—he would be back. Soon—he seemed to fly. He looked at his hands, and they were liver-spotted still, but the spots were fading. He would not teach. He would tell Ruth as they sat together in the folding tin chairs and listened to the droning speakers. He would not teach. He would wake up.

  Frostfree

  Roy Tabak had a new refrigerator. There could be no doubt of that. It gleamed. It was wider than his old one; it was taller, too. It made everything else in his kitchen look small and a trifle dirty. Brand new, he decided, and styled in a subtly pleasing way nothing in the store was. No doubt he had special-ordered. No doubt it had been delivered, and he had opened the door for the delivery and exchanged a few tired jokes with the men who brought it. When they had gone, he had no doubt wiped it down and waxed it with appliance wax.

  Roy Tabak sold refrigerators, and he could remember none of that.

  He opened the main compartment. There was food in it, and it looked good. There was beer in it, too, twenty bottles as least. It was not his brand, and the food was not his. What was that green stuff?

  Movers, clearly, had been moving furniture and so forth into a new apartment. There had not been room enough in the van for this large refrigerator, so they had made a separate trip for it. They had put it in his apartment by mistake. No doubt they had been amateurs, friends helping some friend move. They had failed to notice that the refrigerator had been full of food and beer.

  It was all very simple and convincing, and it would be more simple and convincing after a beer. Still more after six or eight. Aloud, Roy Tabak said, “Hell and damn!”

  “If you are unable to find that which you seek,” his new refrigerator said politely, “I may be able to direct you, sir.”

  Roy Tabak went into the living room and sat down. How many beers had he had? None at all. He had just gotten home from work. Besides, beer didn’t do that. He took off his suit coat and hung it almost neatly in the hall closet, loosened his tie, then removed it altogether and draped it over the back of a chair. His collar was not tight, but he unbuttoned it anyway. Tight collars could make you hear voices, right?