Vag put on his slippers and shuffled down the stairs to the mailbox. It was cold in the entry; you could never tell whether there was any mail in the box or not, thought Vag, as he twisted numbly at the little knobs.

There was mail this time. Vag took out the letters--then looked down at the wooden rack below to see if the man across the hall had gotten his Esquire yet. The brown envelope was lying on top of a magazine. It was thick and heavy, like the package ice cream came in, and it had Vag's name typed on it in bold capital letters. Vag ripped it open and looked inside. There was a book, a big book with a tasteful cover. "Career," it said. Vag put it under his arm and padded back up the stairs.

His maid was sitting on the couch reading the paper; he put the mail on the floor and asked her to move over. Vag opened the book; it said "Career" again. He quickly turned the page and this one said "Dedication." "In few other countries in the world could the forces of business . . . respond with such independent choice to a new idea . . . they can . . . guide this group of young men toward the correct choice of their individually and independently chosen vocations . . ." They meant Vag, evidently. They were helping him make the choice. He started leafing through the book.

"Merrill Lynch, Pierce, Fenner & Beane," it said. "Banking and Finance . . . . Job opportunities available." Nothing wrong with that business, thought Vag. He could keep his striped ties. He turned a few pages "International Telephone and Telegraph Corporation. . . . A world-wide Electronics and Communication Enterprise." Good firm, that. Vag plugged into his switchboard and said "Check," quietly but clearly. "Ford Motor Company." Vag stood modestly behind a stamping machine and watched them lower the engine into the rear of the car. "Time Incorporated." Tough, quick-witted Vag pecked at his typewriter as the Prime Minister lay dying in the next room. This was for him. "Independently Chosen Vocations." That was the word. Here they all were, put together in a special book. He placed the book gently on the table and went to his closet to select a striped tie. Then he remembered the other mail. There were three envelopes, lying close together in a careful pile. The first had a window cut into it; Vag snickered and tossed it back on the table. The next had a handwritten address. He opened it quickly. "24-Hour Cleaning," it said. "Why pay more?" Vag crumpled it into a tight ball and threw it into the fireplace. The maid looked up and frowned. Then he picked up the third and looked at the envelope. "Selective Service," it said. "Transfer Board 17." Vag sat down again, heavily. "Independently Chosen Vocations," he thought. Some guys never get the word.