"She's not running for a bus," he surmised, "she's running to be enslaved by a punch clock and a ten cent tip." He paused by the yawning mouth of the subway as it spewed its human cargo. Rising young executives emerged in their Brook's Brothers suits and with attache' cases in hand, turned with a determined step toward the monolithic office buildings. To a man, they wore the stamped face of sameness. "There they go," Devon thought, "Off to their two hour luncheons, martinis, and ulcers at thirty five. All with the same reactions to the same thoughts. Chained to grey flannel and orderly suburban houses and P.T.A. meetings every Tuesday night." After the regimented Davids came the laughing young girls, turning toward his neighborhood. With hatboxes in hand, they chatted on their way to modeling appointments to be posed and handled by photographers and pseudo artists. This particular group stymied him. "What do they want," Devon asked himself, "What keeps them going? The mauling and manhandling they get, the money, or is it merely the hope of that someday when someone will recognize them from a toothpaste or girdle ad." He tucked this thought away in the back of his mind and renewed his pilgrimage for the answer books of truth at the library. He passed sidewalk vendors and vegetable carts, where their owners were hawking their wares. Shawled women clutched their purses close and argued pennies over the price of cabbage. Devon's research with these weathered women was almost complete. "These women," he told himself, "have instilled themselves with a sense of duty in trying to get the most for the cheapest on this sidewalk battle ground." He turned away 12 in disgust from the scrubwomen as he recalled that his mother was probably somewhere right now doing the same thing. As he ambled along on his mission he tried to formulate the situation. "Everyone of these people had something in common," he recalled, "What was it? What tied them all together?" He was on the bridge now, and he leaned against the railing staring blankly out at the harbor. "Of course," he exulted, "That's it. They were all carrying something. Every single one carried something which made him one of the group." He glanced down at his briefcase carrying some of the books he was returning to the library. "I won't be chained to them, I won't!" and in sudden fury he threw the briefcase over the railing. As soon as he let go of the handle he realized what he had done. He watched the briefcase arc into the water far below. Devon grasped the railing for a moment while he collected his thoughts. He couldn't go on to the library now because the books in the briefcase were due today. The librarian, who looked like a starving vulture, would demand either the books or immediate restitution for them. Devon was above working to pay for them. Devon was free, and nobody or nothing was going to coerce him. He plunged empty hands into his pockets and turned back toward his garret. He couldn't go back to the library and he wouldn't go to work to pay for the books. Then a new thought came to him, "I'm not one of the masses any longer, I'm becoming free!" He rolled the word around on his tongue, "Free", it tasted good, "FREE". 13