He would not get an official car and protect himself with its license number. He would not be a coward. He _would_ not! His fingers shaking, he tore the film from another candy bar. * * * * * Marlowe huddled in his chair, the notebook clamped on one broad thigh by his heavy hand, his lips mumbling nervously while his pencil-point checked off meter. "Dwell in aching discontent," he muttered. "No. Not that." He stared down at the floor, his eyes distant. "Bitter discontent," he whispered. He grunted softly with breath that had to force its way past the constricting weight of his hunched chest. "Bitter dwell." He crossed out the third line, substituted the new one, and began to read the first two verses to himself. "_We are born of Humankind-- This our destiny: To bitter dwell in discontent Wherever we may be._ "_To strangle with the burden Of that which heels us on. To stake our fresh beginnings When frailer breeds have done._" He smiled briefly, content. It still wasn't perfect, but it was getting closer. He continued: "_To pile upon the ashes Of races in decease Such citadels of our kind's own As fortify no--_" "What are you doing, David?" his wife asked over his shoulder. Flinching, he pulled the notebook closer into his lap, bending forward in an instinctive effort to protect it. The warm, loving, sawing voice went on. "Are you writing another poem, David? Why, I thought you'd given that up!" "It's ... it's nothing, really, uh ... Leonora. Nothing much. Just a ... a thing I've had running around my head. Wanted to get rid of it." His wife leaned over and kissed his cheek clumsily. "Why, you old big dear! I'll bet it's for me. Isn't it, David? Isn't it for me?" He shook his head in almost desperate regret. "I'm ... I'm afraid not, uh--" Snorer. "It's about something else, Leonora." "Oh." She came around the chair, and he furtively wiped his cheek with a hasty hand. She sat down facing him, smiling with entreaty. "Would you read it to me anyway, David? Please, dear?" "Well, it's not ... not finished yet--not right." "You don't have to, David. It's not important. Not really." She sighed deeply. He picked up the notebook, his breath cold in his constricted throat. "All right," he said, the words coming out huskily, "I'll read it. But it's not finished yet." "If you don't want to--" * * * * * He began to read hurriedly, his eyes locked on the notebook, his voice a suppressed hoarse, spasmodic whisper. "_Such citadels of our kind's own As fortify no peace._ "_No wall can offer shelter, No roof can shield from pain. We cannot rest; we are the damned; We must go forth again._ "_Unnumbered we must--_"