I had a small revolver. I had never fired it. I though of it only now. I leaped to my feet and darted to the large triple chest at the side of the room. I plunged my hand beneath scarves and slips in the drawer and felt the handle. I cried with joy. I looked at the weapon, disbelievingly. I could not even sob, or moan. I simply could not understand what had happened. Most of the weapon was a shapeless lump of metal. It was almost as if it were a piece of melted, steel chocolate. I dropped it back onto the silk. I stood up, numb, and looked at myself in the mirror. I was defenseless. But my terror was not a simple terror. I sensed that more had occurred to me than could be accounted for simply in the terms of the world I knew. I was afraid.

I ran to the floor-length curtains before the huge window of my bedroom and flung them open.

I looked out on the city.

It hung dark with the gases of pollution, made golden in the sunlight. I could see thousands of windows, some with the sun reflecting from them, in the unreal golden haze. I could see the great walls of brick, and steel and concrete and glass.

It was my world.

I stood there for a moment, the sun streaming in upon me through the thick, dirty glass.

It was my world!

But I stood behind the glass nude, on my throat a band of steel, which I could not remove. On my thigh there was a mark. "No!" I cried to myself. "No!"

I turned away from the window and, stealthily, made my way to the door to the living room, which was slightly ajar. I summoned all my courage, and opened the door slightly more. I almost fainted with relief. The room was empty. Everything was as I had left it.

I ran to the kitchen, which I could see from the living room, and threw open a drawer. I took out a butcher knife. I turned wildly, my back to the counter, holding the knife, but there was nothing.