He lay in the gutter. In his mouth was the taste of whiskey and defeat. There was mud and filth on his face, on his two-week shirt, on his rag-tag suit; and as the street and the buildings rippled and wavered before his eyes, a tape recorder in his mind played over and over: You're through, Hayden—all washed up—this is the bottom—you can't go any lower—Lee Hayden—boy genius—all washed up—you made the trip in a hurry, son—right down from the top to the bottom in nothing flat—why don't you give up