26
T
he
snow was thick underfoot as Tregan stumbled from the building in an intoxication of anger that had no focal point. He almost walked under a taxi as he crossed the street. The machine went skidding, with locked wheels, toward the gutter. The driver swore.
Tregan bowed his head and limped out toward the park. There was surcease in fighting the wind and snow. This, at least, seemed to be something at which he could strike back—something that by determination he could master. Life—you couldn’t master that. You struck at it with your clenched fist and you never hit anything. It was like striking at a vacuum.
His breath clouded as he passed under the arc-lights on the parkway. There had been no pedestrians for hours and the paths were unbroken. A few automobiles ground past on the r
