Bowman was shocked at himself.
He'd lived his whole life as a civilized member of the North American community, and, as a result, he'd never come to terms with himself on what he'd do if he got into honest-to-gosh trouble. Like most modern civilized men, he'd never met trouble of this kind; he was pampered and protected by the community and paid his taxes like a man, so that this protection should endure and others stand between him and primitive realities such as death by bullet or torture.
Although his self-image was that of a free-wheeling, all-American he-man and although he was in danger of believing his own press-clippings, he was aware in the dim recesses of his being that this image was fraudulent, and from time to time he had wondered vaguely what kind of a man he really was. He'd banished these thoughts as soon as they were consciously formulated because he had an uneasy feeling that he was really a weak man after all, and the thought troubled him deeply. The public image he had formed was the man he wanted to be and he could not bear the thought that maybe he was nothing like that. And he had no way of proving it one way or the other---he'd never been put to the test!
Riley's barely hidden contempt had stung and he felt something approaching shame at his attempt to steal the car----that was not the way a man should behave. So that when his test-time came something deep within him made him square his shoulders and briskly tell Sous-Inspector Robiquet to go to hell and make it damn fast, asshole!
So it was that now, lying in bed with all hell breaking loose around him, he felt shocked at himself. He had stood up to such physical pain as he had never thought possible and he felt proud that his last conscious act in Robiquet's office had been to look at the implacable face before him and mumble, "I'll say it again---go to hell, you black son of a bitch!"
He had recovered consciousness in a clean bed with his hands bandaged and his wounds tended. Why that should be he didn't know, nor did he know why he could not raise his body from the bed. He tried several times and then gave up the effort and turned his attention to his new and wondrous self. In one brief hour he'd discovered that he would never need a public image again, that he would never shy away from self-analysis.
"I'll never be afraid again," he whispered aloud through bruised lips. "By God, I stood it---I need never be afraid again."
But he was afraid again when the artillery barrage opened up. He could not control the primeval reaction of his body; his glands worked normally and fear flooded him as the hail of steel fell up St. Martin's Square. He shrank back on the bed and looked up at the ceiling, wondering helplessly if the next shell would plunge down to take away his newfound manhood.
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