[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Infinity Science Fiction, February 1956.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
That was the damnedest December I ever saw in New York. Whatever the
weather is, Manhattan _always_ gets the worst of it--frying hot in
summer, snow or slush up to your ankles in winter--and all along the
seaboard, it was a mean season. Coming in from Pennsylvania the day
before, we'd been held up twice while the tracks were cleared. But when
I stepped out of the hotel that night, the Saturday after Christmas,
it was like a mild October; the air was just cool, with a fresh hint
of snow in it. There was a little slush in the gutters, not much; the
pavements were dry.
I was late, or I would have gone back and ditched the rubbers; I
hate the foolish things to begin with, one reason I moved to the
country--out there, I wear house slippers half the year, galoshes the
rest; there's no in-between. I took off my gloves, opened my scarf,
and breathed deep lungfuls while I walked to the corner for a cab. I
began to wonder if it had been smart to move 90 miles out of town just
because I didn't like rubbers.
The streets didn't seem overcrowded. I got a cab without any trouble.
Nobody was hurrying; it was as if the whole population was sitting
peacefully at home or in some bar, in no rush to be anywhere else.
"Listen," I said to the cabbie, "this is still New York, isn't it?"