Promptly at eight o'clock a patrician figure in his thirties was 
shown to his regular table in the Palm Room of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.  
Tall and slender, elegantly attired, he was the cynosure of all eyes, 
though most diners, mindful of the celebrated inventor's need for privacy, 
pretended not to stare.
	Eighteen clean linen napkins were stacked as usual at his place.  
Nikola Tesla could no more have said why he favored numbers divisible by 
three than why he had a morbid fear of germs or, for that matter, why he 
was beset by any of the multitude of other strange obsessions that plagued 
his life.
	Abstractedly he began to polish the already sparkling silver and 
crystal, taking up and discarding one square of linen after another until a 
small starched mountain had risen on the serving table.  Then, as each dish 
arrived, he compulsively calculated its cubic contents before lifting a 
bite to his lips.  Otherwise there could be no joy in eating.

				-- Tesla: Man Out of Time
				   by Margaret Cheney