A tall, pale. pretty girl identifies herself as Elizabeth Gardner of Seattle. She is one of those who had been shot in Wednesday night's action. As she begins to talk, she makes the mistake of looking at exactly where she is.

Television cameras, tape recorders. long sound mike poles pointed at her from the corners of the room, klieg lights, ashtrays, notebooks, ties, hot men, closed room, sweat, tapping fingers, shined shoes, winding knobs, leaning-all pointed at her like some mad animal . . . like a gun. All through a blue funk from glowing cigarettes. the faces are dark and there is a menacing murmuring. She had descended into the pit and her words rush out in a whisper of extreme unction.

"I was walking on the street . . .

"people and police . . .

"clubs . . .

"turned around . . .

"shot in the leg twice, in the upper thigh, while running away . . .

"realized I was wounded, called for help. . .

"must have been from the same bullet, same shotgun, same time . . .

"hospital-John was shot in the head with a 38 caliber bullet, there are others, many, not treated in hospitals . . ."

The press interrupts:

"What are the names of the people who were shot. Elizabeth, we can't report this as fact until we know who they are."

"I'm Nina Davis of SDS in New York City.

"Another of the brothers was shot tonight by the police.

"We used to call that repression. We call that war now.