"One man can't change the world, Terry."
That was it. Bryan considered the remark now, intently.
Was that what he really wanted to do—change the world? He groped among old ideals and ambitions for the answer.
In the beginning he had wanted to create—to create by writing about people, about life. But to write about life required knowing it. He had become a reporter.
What he had learned of life was evilness, greed, suffering, ignorance. He could not write of that and still create as he had dreamed. But he could fight it. He could fight it wherever he found it, little by little. And he had fought. It was all that had kept him going.
A fool's mission, doomed to failure. Dave was right.
Bryan had his answer now. He didn't want to change the world. He wanted to do something even more impossible—he wanted to make a world of his own.
He grinned sourly and flipped the remains of the cigarette away. Hailing a cab, then, he rode to the Courier Building.
The city room was filled with the old familiar clamor, the rattle of typewriters and teletypes, the shrilling of telephones, the undulant babble of voices. Bryan waved in answer to greetings as he threaded his way to his desk. He rolled a sheet of paper into his typewriter, lighted a cigarette, and rubbed his face. Then he straightened with a jerk and began hitting the typewriter keys with the first and second fingers of each hand.