Up the concrete steps. Slowly, one, two, three, four. Down the naked, ice-white corridor. The echo of his footfalls like drumbeats, ominous, threatening. Around him, bodies, faces, moving dimly behind the veil of his fear. At last, above an oaken door, the black-lettered sign: DEPARTMENT OF LAND-JET VEHICLES DIVISION OF LICENSES He took a deep breath. He withdrew his handkerchief and wiped perspiration from his forehead, his upper lip, the palms of his hands. His mind caressed the hope: Maybe I'