J--or Jay--7, the man in the cell, wiped his mess gear with a denim rag, a nice match for his shapeless prison pants and the number-stencilled jacket he wore over a grey-white T-shirt. He belched sourly and made a face. Damn. Wednesday. The rice had been passable enough, but the stew was even more sour than usual. Thank goodness for the bottle of ketchup, resting now with an assortment of items on the unpainted wooden shelf hung neatly over his bunk with two strips of denim rag from his busily sounding off speaker box. Two credits, that ketchup. He belched again. Well, he could never have downed that stew without it. It did pay to build up those credits. Mr. Boswell, hardware or not, knew his business. And now at least he, Jay 7, knew his, the prisoner's business well enough. Well enough to get by. As Mr. Boswell had said--and said--"we have to go by the rules of the game we are in, boy." Trying to beat them was beating on a stone wall. Three days in solitary that time he had stuffed his blanket in the toilet and tried to flood the place had taught him. Now his head was unbloody and bowed to the extent that seemed necessary. As Mr. Boswell had said, with soft harshness, on his third day, a Thursday, in solitary, peering down through the tiny grill with unwinking lenses, "If you think, my boy, that you are the one with a head that will prove harder than these concrete and steel walls you may try if you can bruise them; but this will not help your case." The hard way, but only once. He learned the lesson. Now his cell--home-room--squawker stayed on straight through 0500 through 2300 every day. That brought four bonus credits per week. His cell was neat and clean; the toilet bowl gleamed, pure, sparkling white. Four more credits. And he did his work, in his cell, adding endless columns of surely meaningless figures, writing out political letters to constituents in a neat hand for all levels of elective officials of the State. Tedious work? Well ... in a sense; but it was a challenge, too, all those figures without an error, making the letters neat and appealing, and balancing properly on the page. It wasn't so easy. He earned his credits; made his quota, too, every day. Mr. Boswell was pleased with him. So.