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She'd shopped the magazine stand. She said she thought he ought to have plenty of magazines--"They'll be welcome in the Mission so don't throw them away." And the new H. Allen Smith book. And cigarettes.

"Five cartons!" he said. "I don't know whether they'll let me carry that many through customs."

She dropped everything on a bench, and then tapped his dispatch case. "That's what this is for. Didn't you know?"

"I'm learning," he said. He sat down beside her, put the dispatch case across his knees, unsnapped the locks, and fitted the cartons inside.

"That's a lovely thing," she said, rubbing her fingers along the perfect grain of the leather. "I hope some day it carries--I'm not sure what. But something thrilling. Something extra wonderful. Something for all of us. Something to wipe our fear away."

"I thought you'd got over it."

"I've rationalized it, some, but I can't get rid of it. Who can? There isn't a person in this country, Jeff, who at least once each day doesn't think of war. It's a permanent hazard, tangible as a fog that never blows away. It colors everything we do. Nobody can make a decision--business or personal--without considering it."