Mr. Carr wiped the handkerchief around his beard. "I enjoyed the bridge thoroughly," he said. "Perhaps the four of us could have a game when the ladies are away at the faculty wives' meeting next Thursday? You and I could be partners, and use the Culbertson slam conventions." His voice became wistful. "I'm tired of always having to play the Blackwood." Norman nodded, but he was thinking of how men have learned to swallow their tongues, and when the occasion came, die of suffocation. He tried to check himself. These were speculations appropriate only to the concentration camp. Visions of death kept rising in his mind, replacing one another. He felt the pulsations deepen, become unendurably strong. Mr. Carr nodded pleasantly and turned off. He quickened his pace, as if the walls of the poisoned passageway were contracting on the legendary hero and, unless the end were soon reached, he would have to shove out against them wildly. From the corner of his eye he saw one of his students. She was staring at him puzzledly. He brushed past her. He reached the boulevard. The lights were against him. He paused on the edge of the curb. A large red truck was rumbling toward the intersection at a fair rate of speed. And then he knew just what was going to happen, and that he would be unable to stop himself. He was going to wait until the truck was very close and then he was going to throw himself under the wheels. End of the passageway. That was the meaning of the fifth stick figure, the tarot diagram that had departed from tradition. Empress--Juggler--The truck was very close. Tower--The lights had started to change but the truck was not going to stop. Hanged man-- It was only when he leaned forward, tensing his leg muscles, that the small flat voice spoke into his ear, a voice that was a monotone and yet diabolically humorous, the voice of his dreams: "Not for two weeks, at least. Not for two more weeks." He regained his balance. The truck rushed by. He looked over his shoulder--first up, then around. No one but a small Negro boy and an elderly man, rather shabbily dressed, carrying a shopping bag. They were waiting to cross in the opposite direction. A shiver settled on his spine. Eyes shifting warily from side to side, he crossed the street, and proceeded home. He no longer thought of death, except to fear it. As soon as he was inside, he poured himself a more than generous drink. Oddly, Tansy had set out soda and ice. He mixed the highball and gulped it down. So he had been given two weeks? Two weeks in which to pick his life slowly apart, savor each stage of doom, before he should walk again the narrow corridor at the end of which a truck was always rumbling by. Anger surged in him at the idea. But perhaps that was what he was supposed to do--get angry. He mixed himself another drink, took a gulp, then looked at it doubtfully. Perhaps that was part of the plan, too. * * * * *