Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 7, No. 9, September 1962

A trace of a smile began to play about his thin lips as the reverie led him even deeper into the delights of fantasy.

Halsey had shown all his neighbors his bomb shelter as soon as it had been completed.

“These,” he had told them, indicating the steel tanks along one wall of the concrete structure, “are my oxygen bottles. Enough here to last three weeks.” He had placed the necessary amount of stress on the last statement.

“And this is the larder.” He had opened the large twin doors to expose a series of shelves piled high with tinned bread, meats, vegetables, fruits, and bottles of vitamins. One by one, he had exhibited such other items as the garbage disposal, the toilet, the air vent, the water supply, and similar necessities.

“There is no radio or television,” he had explained. “In a real raid, there probably wouldn’t be any broadcasts to listen to after the first few minutes anyway, and probably no electricity to bring them in, and we want this test to simulate the real thing as much as possible. A psychological test, you know.”

There was a shelf of books, a rack of magazines, and a number of puzzles and games. “And these,” Halsey had said, indicating a small stack of cardboard cartons, “are models of ships, airplanes, and the like to be assembled. Something to keep the hands busy. My wife, of course, will bring along her needle work and her knitting...”

He had always saved showing the lock on the steel door until last. Since it was to play the most important part in his plan, he felt that it should be left uppermost in the minds of his visiting neighbors.

“Anyone can live in a bomb shelter or a fallout shelter quite nicely for two weeks,” he had stressed, “provided he can get out for a walk whenever he wants, talk over the telephone to his friends, or have the neighbors in for an occasional evening of bridge. But that is not a real test. A real test can be made only when the occupants of the shelter cut themselves off entirely from contact with the outside world!”

He had always paused here for a moment to let the impact of the thought etch itself deeply into the brain of the listener.

“This is a time lock activated by solar batteries which also are the source of power for the lights and the air fan. It is set for a period of two weeks to the exact minute. Once the door closes, the timer sets automatically, and the door cannot be opened from either the inside or the outside until the precise course of time is run. Only in this way can a true test be made as to whether two people can remain compatible during a real raid.”

And the neighbors had gone away duly impressed. If the Halseys survived the ordeal, then — if worse came to worst — they too could weather the storm harmoniously within their own shelters. It was, indeed, a worthwhile experiment!

Halsey smiled now at the memory. Tomorrow morning at precisely nine o’clock, the neighbors would be waiting for the steel door to open, waiting to see, first-hand, the outcome of the great psychological experiment. And they would all be witnesses to his wife’s accidental death!

The clashing knitting needles ceased their clangor. Mrs. Halsey laid the sweater on the little table beside her chair, yawned, got up, went to a small mirror and began creaming her face for the night.

She didn’t speak, and neither did he. They hadn’t said much to each other for the past few days. Yet, the two weeks had been fairly satisfactory ones — she content in her complete dominance and possession of him; he content in the knowledge that the dominance and possession would soon come to a definite end.

He mumbled a good-night as she got into her bed, but her answer was scarcely audible.

Halsey thumbed through some magazines for nearly an hour, then got into his pajamas, climbed into his bed, and flicked the light switch at the head board.

The small room was plunged instantly into silent darkness, and in a minute or two the luminous dial of his wristwatch became plainly visible. It was a few minutes to midnight.

Halsey slept fitfully. He was tangled in the sweater. The door wouldn’t open. The world was sprouting mushroom clouds. Something had gone wrong with the time clock...

He found himself staring at the glowing dial of the wristwatch. It was exactly seven o’clock. He smiled into the darkness. He had practiced for a full week to awaken precisely at seven.

He lay for awhile without moving, giving the sticky webs of sleepiness time to clear. This was the zero hour. He could call off the whole idea, walk out of the door at nine o’clock, greet his neighbors — and go on living with her for the rest of his natural life...

He stifled the groan the thought provoked. No, the plan had to be carried through! Otherwise, life to him would be intolerable!