r. Everyone else was out of the
building, and the robots were taking over. Metal treads spun along the
corridors, bearing brooms, and the robot switchboards guarded the
communications of the Ministry. Soon the char-robots would be bustling
into this very office. He sighed and walked slowly out, down the empty
halls where no human eye could see him waddling.

* * * * *

He stepped into his car, and as he opened the door the automatic
recording said "Home, please," in his own voice. The car waited until he
was settled and then accelerated gently, pointing for his apartment.

The recording had been an unavoidable but vicious measure of his own.
He'd had to resort to it, for the temptation to drive to a terminal, to
an airport, or rocket field, or railroad station--_anywhere_--had become
excruciating.

The car stopped for a pedestrian light, and a sports model bounced
jauntily to a stop beside it. The driver cocked an eyebrow at Marlowe
and chuckled. "Say, Fatso, which one of you's the Buick?" Then the light
changed, the car spurted away, and left Marlowe cringing.

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