He pointed this out. Their spokesman said, “We know. But you’ll have plenty of backing this time. Supreme Bishop Short is determined that this Antichrist shall flourish no longer.”

The prosecutor was not interested in antichrists—but there was a primary coming up. “Well, just remember I can’t do much without backing.”

“You’ll have it.”

Farther north, Dr. Jubal Harshaw was not immediately aware of this incident and its consequences, but he did know of too many others for peace of mind. Against his own rules he had succumbed to that most insidious drug, the news. Thus far, he had contained his vice; he merely subscribed to a clipping service instructed for “Man from Mars,” “V. M. Smith,” “Church of All Worlds,” and “Ben Caxton.” But the monkey was crawling up his back—twice lately he had had to fight off an impulse to order Larry to set up the babble box in his study—

Damn it, why couldn’t those kids tape him an occasional letter?—instead of letting him wonder and worry. “Front!”

He heard Anne come in but he still continued to stare out a window at snow and an empty swimming pool. “Anne,” he said without turning around, “rent us a small tropical atoll and put this mausoleum up for sale.”

“Yes, Boss. Anything else?”

“But get that atoll tied down on a long-term lease before you hand this wilderness back to the Indians; I will not put up with hotels. How long has it been since I wrote any pay copy?”

“Forty-three days.”

“You see? Let that be a lesson to you. Begin. ‘Death Song of a Wood’s Colt.’

“The depths of winter longing are ice in my heart

The shards of broken covenants lie sharp against my soul

The wraiths of long-lost ecstasy still keep us two apart

The sullen winds of bitterness still keen from turn to pole.

“The scars and twisted tendons, the stumps of struck-off limbs,

The aching pit of hunger and the throb of unset bone,

My sanded burning eyeballs, as light within them dims,

Add nothing to the torment of lying here alone . . .

“The shimmering flames of fever trace out your blessed face

My broken eardrums echo yet your voice inside my head

I do not fear the darkness that comes to me apace

I only dread the loss of you that comes when I am dead.



“There,” he added briskly, “sign it ‘Louisa M. Alcott’ and have the agency send it to Togetherness magazine.”

“Boss, is that your idea of ‘pay copy’?”

“Huh? Of course it isn’t. Not now. But it will be worth something later, so put it in file and my literary executor can use it to help settle the death duties. That’s the catch in all artistic pursuits; the best work is always worth most after the workman can’t be paid. The literary life—dreck! It consists in scratching the cat till it purrs.”

“Poor Jubal! Nobody ever feels sorry for him, so he has to feel sorry for himself.”

“Sarcasm yet. No wonder I don’t get any work done.”

“Not sarcasm; Boss. Only the wearer knows where the shoe pinches.”

“My apologies. All right, here’s pay copy. Begin. Title: ‘One for the Road.’

“There’s amnesia in a hang knot,

And comfort in the ax,

But the simple way of poison will make

your nerves relax.

“There’s surcease in a gunshot,

And sleep that comes from racks,

But a handy draft of poison avoids the

harshest tax.

“You find rest upon the hot squat,

Or gas can give you pax,

But the closest corner chemist has peace

in packaged stacks.

“There’s refuge in the church lot

When you tire of facing facts,

And the smoothest route is poison

prescribed by kindly quacks.



“Chorus—“With an ugh! and a groan, and a kick of the heels,

Death comes quiet, or it comes with squeals—

But the pleasantest place to find your end

Is a cup of cheer from the hand of a friend.”



“Jubal,” Anne said worriedly, “is your stomach upset?”

“Always.”

“That one’s for file too?”

“Huh? That’s for the New Yorker. Their usual pen name.”

“They’ll bounce it.”

“They’ll buy it. It’s morbid, they’ll buy it.”

“And besides, there’s something wrong with the scansion.”

“Of course there is! You have to give an editor something to change, or he gets frustrated. After he pees in it himself, he likes the flavor much better, so he buys it. Look, my dear, I was successfully avoiding honest work long before you were born—so don’t try to teach Granpaw how to suck eggs. Or would you rather I nursed Abby while you turn out copy? Hey! It’s Abigail’s feeding time, isn’t it? And you weren’t ‘Front,’ Dorcas is ‘Front.’ I remember.”