The Kingdom of the Blind

James Forrest Carroll was lazily happy with himself. His needs were quite simple and the apartment he lived in was far beyond them. He had a gnawing doubt that he could keep it forever, because there was something about money that did not jibe.
He could not make enough money to maintain it—and he did not need it anyway. But it was very nice and he viewed it as any normal man might view living in his own ideal home, complete with everything that he ever hoped to have.
He awoke in the morning by physical habit, dressed by instinct and his breakfast was served by the housekeeper. Then he left the place and roamed. He saw the parks and enjoyed with primitive pleasure the greenery and the natural settings of tree, grass and sky. The park squirrels knew no fear of him and he found them interesting. Perhaps he subconsciously envied their obvious adjustment to their environment.
He visited an art institute once but never returned because it made him uneasy. The same was true of the museum of natural history, though it was more to his liking than the artificial art.
On the same street was a museum of science which, because of a strange arrangement of windows, portico, and row of columns, took on a distorted picture of a grinning giant that threatened to swallow whoever entered. Carroll, without knowing the subconscious connection, feared and avoided it even though he had to cross the street to pass it.
They took him from a planetarium once—screaming in fear and crying to be set free. Claustrophobia, one "expert" said, but he didn't know that Carroll had been mentally sitting in deep space with no solidity beneath him when he started to scream.
He—got along.
There was no apparent advance. His actions in life were normal to his preamnesiac self on minor items. He preferred the better restaurants, took an instinctive liking to the same good clothing that he had lived with before. In all outward respects James Forrest Carroll was a well-to-do man without the mental right to carry that position.
Occasionally it bothered him that something was wrong but he avoided the reason for it.
Why am I? he asked himself again and again. What has happened? His evenings were spent in roaming, just walking the quiet streets and trying to think of why he was puzzled. On these walks he noticed little of his fellow men and their actions. If they wanted to be as they were, James Carroll was not to bother them.
He often pondered the question of how he would react if one of them called upon him or spoke to him. Then, he thought, he would act. But he was not to criticize nor object to the way in which his fellow man conducted himself so long as it did not bother James Forrest Carroll.
This wonder of what he would do took ups and downs. There were times when he wished someone would act toward him so that he could find out about himself. At other times he did not care. At still other times he knew that how he would act depended entirely upon the circumstances. In the final analysis, however, Carroll's first act toward anyone came from sheer instinct rather than from any plan.
A girl emerged from a building carrying a file-box of papers. It was dusk and she was hurrying along the street before him by fifty feet. It was obvious that her last job for the day was the delivery of this box of papers to some other building and, once it was delivered, she was finished. That Carroll understood.
She stopped for traffic at the end of the block and as she stood there, a large car drove up to the curb and stopped beside her. Idly she turned and walked to the car slowly, opened the door and started to enter.
That struck a hidden chord in Carroll's mind.
"Hey!" he exploded, running forward to the car. His voice startled her and she partly turned. A hand emerged from within the car and grabbed the box of papers. Carroll arrived at that instant and grabbed for the other end. There was a quick struggle and the box opened and a hundred sheets of notes were strewn on the sidewalk.