The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Mischievous Typesetter, by Noel Loomis

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Title: The Mischievous Typesetter

Author: Noel Loomis

Release Date: July 18, 2021 [eBook #65861]

Language: English

Produced by: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MISCHIEVOUS TYPESETTER ***

# THE MISCHIEVOUS TYPESETTER

## By Noel Loomis

They say that man is the master of any machine
he can devise. But whoever coined the phrase didn't
know about this linotype—with a mind of its own....

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
July 1952
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

The judge reared back. High-Pockets waited. "In my opinion," his honor began a little ambiguously, "a linotype operator is very near the bottom of the scale of humanity. There is only one person who stands beneath him. That is the poet." The judge's eyes turned full on High-Pockets, all seven gangling feet of him. "You," the judge said ominously, "are both."

High-Pockets waited in dread. He had a premonition that this wasn't even going to be a nice jail sentence where he could meditate and reflect on his strange power over linotypes. This was going to be the workhouse. The situation was desperate indeed.

"You profess to be a barnstormer and a student of mechanical nature." The judge smiled sarcastically. "I can offer you an unusual opportunity for research. As an old proofreader, I occasionally help out on the Daily News, and it has come to my attention that there is a linotype on the News known as No. 7 that recently has begun to misbehave. Without apparent reason, it has become almost useless."

High-Pockets cringed with the impact of the knowledge that His Honor had once been a proofreader. The traditional enmity between proofreaders and operators, High-Pockets perceived, was about to be judicially resolved. So he cringed. He was very sad.

"Suppose you go up there and try your wizardry on No. 7." His Honor suggested. "In the meantime, thirty days suspended sentence. If you're back here before your time is up, it will be sixty days. And if there is drunkenness connected with it," he said, looking disdainfully at High-Pockets' red nose, "it will be ninety. Is that clear?"

"Yes, your honor." High-Pockets mumbled, but he was thinking of other things. He had been sentenced to work at his trade. That meant contact with proofreaders, and High-Pockets bristled. But the bristling subsided rapidly, as High-Pockets, simulating a grateful smile from long habit, realized with a sickly feeling that for perhaps the first time in his long career, a proofreader had had the complete and final word, and High-Pockets did not dare to answer back....

They spotted High-Pockets coming across the composing-room of the Daily News when they saw a red nose following an eccentric orbit up among the fluorescent lights. High-Pockets didn't exactly duck the lights. When he came face to face with one, his incredibly tall knees limbered up and he sort of weaved under it.

The union chairman met him with a handshake. "High-Pockets Jones," he said, grinning, "Dean of Barnstormers and Wizard of the Linotype. I know you from your picture. Can you really make a linotype stand up on its hind legs and talk?"

"Well," High-Pockets said in a modest, booming voice, "I will admit that's one of my more difficult stunts."

The chairman guffawed, and they steered High-Pockets to the slip-board. "I can put you on a week's stretch."

High-Pockets stopped as if he had walked into a brick wall. "No!" he boomed. "Can't do it! Haven't worked five days straight in twenty years."

"But look, High-Pockets. Look at it this way. You're an old-time barnstormer, aren't you?"

High-Pockets winced.

"Well," the chairman said diplomatically, "there's not as much call for barnstormers as there used to be, but—" he said it quickly—"here's a new field. It needs a good barnstormer as much as they ever did."

High-Pockets listened intently.

"This poor guy has to sit on No. 7. That's the linotype nobody can do anything with. The poor devil had to lay off because she pretty nearly drove him crazy. Now you are the guy who can make a linotype behave." His voice was persuasive. "Won't you help this guy out for a few nights?"

For twenty years it had been High-Pockets' unbroken rule not to hire out for more than a day at a time. "Short-term contracts," he insisted. But now—well, the world was changed. Maybe this was to be the future of barnstorming—taming machines instead of foremen. If so, it meant he still had a place in the world. And to fulfill that destiny he would even accept a whole week's work. He took off his rain-wrinkled coat with a sigh.

He was waiting for time to be called when Arturius Wickware, the linotype machinist on the News, came up to him with short, mincing steps and a scowl that undoubtedly was a habit. "Are you the guy that has such wonderful control over a linotype?" he demanded. He wouldn't give High-Pockets the satisfaction of looking up at him. He scowled at High-Pockets' breast-bone.

High-Pockets was solemn as he stared over Arturius' head. "I get along well with them." He smiled gently then. "Somehow a linotype always does what I want it to do." He looked down and saw the crowd around him and decided he owed them an explanation. "My theory is that any piece of machinery is electrified by some force that I call personal electricity. I don't exactly know what that is but it seems to bind the piece of machinery as a whole. I think maybe it's a negative charge, and I think most men are charged positively with that same force, so that men get along well with machines. Opposite poles attract, you know."

Arturius Wickware sputtered, but now High-Pockets had to go on. "Sometimes a man comes along who happens to be negatively charged, and he can't handle a piece of machinery at all. But now I—you see this scar in the middle of my forehead—" he removed his faded hat, "I was struck by lightning on a freight train out in Utah, and I think it multiplied my 'personal' electricity potential a lot—maybe millions of times—so machinery just has to do what I want it to, because it wants to do it. You see?"

There was an odd silence; then the chairman spoke. "Old No. 7 started acting up when they built the first uranium pile south of town here, but it really went bad when it was hit by lightning that followed down the ventilation pipe two months ago."

High-Pockets' blue eyes opened wide. "Maybe its negative field was reversed by some stray rays from the pile, and then when the lightning hit it, it intensified the field so that the machine is now strongly positive. You know how it is," he said earnestly. "A body illuminated by ultraviolet light becomes positively charged, and even a hot body becomes positively charged by what they call thermionic emission. Well, that's okay. A linotype is exactly like a woman. It has a soul—if you know how to reach it."

Old Arturius snorted so loudly the electric relay on No. 7 made contact and the heating switch came on with a clatter. "You can work on No. 7 tonight," he said acidly. "Let's see if it's got a soul." He turned on his heel and stamped back to his bench....

It never occurred to High-Pockets to doubt his success with No. 7. He carefully hung his ten-year-old coat in an empty locker and made sure the pint of bourbon was safely in the inside pocket of the coat. Then he walked into the composing-room and over to No. 7, and stood for a moment looking her over. He frowned. "It's almost as if she was laying her ears back and getting ready to snarl at me," he said wonderingly.

"She'll snarl," said Arturius at his back. "She'll bite, before the night's over."

High-Pockets tried to look amused. "I'll have her setting type by herself before lunch time," he promised.

High-Pockets got the lowest chair in the composing-room, to bring his arms down near the keyboard. His nose was still red and he weaved a little in the chair, but he began to fold in his arms until his hands were over the keyboard.

The first take went smoothly. High-Pockets could feel a clash of wills, but he was slow and careful. He set two more takes, and nothing happened, so he began to relax. His third take was a short piece of telegraph copy for the second edition. He put it in the copy holder and then decided to get a drink of water. He ran into some friends and they spent five minutes around the fountain before the foreman came by.

High-Pockets went back to the machine. He sat down and got his arms tucked in, then reached for a slug with his name on it and started to put it in the stick. Then he frowned and rang the bell for the machinist.

"Somebody's playing tricks on me," he said. "Who's been working here?"

"Nobody but you," Arturius said nastily.

High-Pockets licked his lips. "I'd swear I didn't set this take." But Arturius looked intensely satisfied and went away. Thoughtfully High-Pockets took the type out of the stick and put his take slug on it and went to the dump. When he sat down again he shook his head and rubbed his eyes before he went to work. "No. 7 musta set that take herself," he muttered, "but that's not according to union rules." He said it without actually believing it.

He got along all right until nearly lunch time. By then, he was dry again, and he got a long take of the next day's editorial and stuck it in the copy board, then went to the fountain, and finally decided to go to the washroom and smoke a cigarette.

When he got back to the machine he picked up a take slug and pulled back the slug-stacker—and then he froze tight.

High-Pockets looked a little scared. He licked his lips and took the stick out of the machine. It was a long take, about ten inches of type. He laid it across his knees and compared it with the copy. It checked. He read it over upside down. Not a single error.

"Well, I didn't set it, anyway," he muttered. "I couldn't possibly set an okay proof, the way I feel."

Somewhat resignedly he took the type to the dump.

The dump-man looked at him. "Turning 'em out pretty fast. Whatta you think this is, a piecework town?"

High-Pockets looked chastened, but said nothing.

He went to the copy desk. There was nothing now but want ads. He got a take and then he had a bright idea. He put the want ads on the copy board and went for a drink of water. He was dry again, anyway. He took plenty of time, and then came back and confidently picked up a take slug.

But he got a jolt when he looked at the stick. It was empty.

High-Pockets nodded wisely. "So it doesn't like want ads any better than anybody else," he said to himself. "Now, that's a dirty shame."

He got all folded in and started to operate. But at the first letter he touched, the keyboard belt broke. He called Arturius and had it fixed, and tried again. The mats jammed up in the chute.

He cleaned them out and then started carefully hitting one letter at a time. But the very first one came to the starwheel, and rang the bell again. "Star-wheel spring is loose," he said. "She won't bring the mats down."

Arturius looked at him with a scowl that bore the heavy responsibility of the entire world, and then without a word sat down to fix it. He stood by while High-Pockets tried again. The line finally was filled and High-Pockets sent it in and started on the second line.

"Wait a minute," said Arturius. "You didn't get a slug." He opened the vise. "Short-line stop is out of adjustment," he growled. "What's the matter with this machine, anyway?"

High-Pockets looked worried. "Maybe she don't like want ads," he said. "Maybe I better set this take somewhere else."

Arturius grunted. High-Pockets went to No. 8. He set the want ads with one eye on No. 7. He was quite sober now.

The copy-cutter wasn't looking when High-Pockets got back to the desk, and High-Pockets did something he'd never done before in his life. He "worked the hook"—instead of taking want ads, he very quietly took a piece of minion, and then looked around guiltily to see if anybody noticed.

He wound his way back to No. 7 and got all set. Arturius was gone. High-Pockets by now realized that he was up against worthy opposition. If he had reached No. 7's soul, he had stirred it the wrong way. From now on he would be extremely careful.

Things went all right until after the cast. The line went up to transfer—and there it stuck. High-Pockets sighed and rang the bell. Arturius came, but the scowl on his face was diluted with self-satisfaction.

He started to lock the spaceband lever, but when he touched the latch, the spaceband lever went over with a crash and the line of mats spilled out in the intermediate channel.

High-Pockets sighed noisily and got up. Arturius was using some uncomplimentary language, and the gleam of satisfaction was all in High-Pockets' eyes now.

They picked up the mats, and Arturius pulled out the clutch lever to let the machine finish its revolution. But it stuck on ejection. The clutch grabbed and chattered. He threw the clutch lever in and went around behind. He backed the machine by hand and hammered with the ejector lever. The slug wouldn't come out.

He came back, looked at the knife, looked at the ejector blade, examined the mouthpiece. "This mill is nuts," he said in his sourest tone, and added some explanatory remarks that verged on redundancy. He held up the ejector lug while High-Pockets pulled the clutch lever and let the machine go on over.

Arturius had to loosen the mold-cap to get the slug out. Then he stood back for High-Pockets to sit down. But by this time High-Pockets had awakened. He looked hard at the copy and whispered to himself, "Oh-oh, no wonder. We've got society. Don't blame her." He told Arturius he had to get a drink. When he came back, Arturius was gone, and very quietly High-Pockets went over to No. 8 and set the type.

His next take was a nice piece of telegraph on green copy paper. "She ought to like this." High-Pockets thought, but his face had a wondering look.

He put the copy in the holder and got ready to massage the keyboard. But he'd just got his arms folded up and his fingers stretched out when the mats began to drop into the assembling elevator. They dropped with perfect timing. The assembling elevator filled and High-Pockets' eyes began to gleam. "She'll have to wait for me to send the line in," he thought. But old No. 7 wouldn't be denied. The elevator went up, the line went in, the elevator came down, and mats started dropping again. High-Pockets got up and went to a window. He leaned out and breathed the crisp night air.

When he got back the take was finished.

He got the second take of the same story and went back to the machine. He put the take in the copy holder and then, out of habit, he looked at the stick. It was already half full of type. He was almost afraid to compare it with his copy, but he did.

After he checked it, he got up and went to the locker room. Nobody else was there. He pulled the pint bottle out of his coal pocket and without hesitation violated another strict office rule—he took a good, long, healthy drink of bourbon.

He wiped his lips and came back. No. 7 was still running over. He looked at the type. There was a guideline that said "Third Add—Nazi Werewolves." High-Pockets turned on his heel and went back to the locker room. This time he had two drinks, and when he finished he weaved a little more.

"Monkeying with souls," he muttered, "is dangerous business."

He was thankful the story had only three takes. First he thought he would dump the third take in the metal pot, but when he picked it up it was so hot that even he, with calloused finger-tips from handling hot slugs for twenty years, couldn't hold it. So he dumped both takes and turned off the motor, then went to lunch.

That is, he borrowed a dollar from the chairman and started for the restaurant. But he passed a saloon on the way, and decided he was more in need of a drink.

When he got back he had a little trouble with the fluorescent lights. They weaved when he weaved, and it took some rather delicate navigation to beat them to the punch. It was fortunate that the light tubes were fixed securely in their sockets, and fortunate that the foreman had gone into the office to check the time cards.

When High-Pockets got back to the copy desk, he was pretty fuzzy around the edges. He looked over his first take as soon as he got behind the desk. Then he gave a relieved sigh. This was Editorial. No. 7 wouldn't be so fussy—he hoped.

He got four paragraphs through before he ran into trouble. Then some mats jammed up at the top of the assembler entrance cover. High-Pockets started to ring the bell, but decided not to. He could dig it out himself. He'd had enough trouble with Arturius for one night.

He opened the entrance cover, and a hundred mats fell down over his arm and onto the keyboard with an ominous tinkle. Their weight depressed some twenty keys, and the power drive immediately began to function, and the mats from those twenty channels dropped in twenty curving streams on the keyboard, which depressed still more keys and made more mats drop, and in about two minutes No. 7 had poured fifteen hundred mats into High-Pockets' lap.

He did one thing before he rang the bell. He brushed the mats off the copy holder and looked at the rest of the paragraph. It ended, "—and the blame for Pearl Harbor thus lay at the door of the White House."

High-Pockets got up, shedding mats by the hundreds. Arturius came, looking as if he were about to detonate. Half the operators in the shop were there to enjoy the fact that at least there was one man who wasn't afraid to have trouble with No. 7.

Somebody chuckled and said. "Get a basket," but High-Pockets knew it wasn't meant for him and nobly disdained a reply. He was muttering to himself, "I've heard these machines called a lot of things in my time, but this is the first one I ever saw that could justifiably be called a Republican."

The machinist was verbose, a little on the vicariously obscene side. High-Pockets helped him pick the mats off the floor, but it was almost an hour before they got the machine going again.

When they did, High-Pockets went back to look at the slip-board. He studied it for a few minutes with a queer look on his face, then started for the chairman. But halfway there, he changed his mind. No machine had ever got the best of him before, and he'd been up against some tough ones. He was a barnstormer, wasn't he?

So he went back to the battle. But now there wasn't any copy, so he wandered around with that queer look on his face, and finally wound up in the locker room where he decided he might as well kill the pint. He smoked a cigarette and stuck his head out of the window into the fresh air.

When the pint was thoroughly defunct he returned. The machine was quiet again, but the stick was half full. He didn't even look at it. There wasn't any copy, but he took the type to the dump.

The next take was copy for "Good Morning, Glory," the paper's star columnist. That seemed to go very well. No. 7 perhaps couldn't quite make out what was happening. Well, that was nothing. Most columnists were like that.

Then again there wasn't any copy. A young fellow came down from the newsroom and spoke to the copy-cutter. "There'll be a story down for the eleven-fifteen edition," he said. "'Two Women Murdered.' About a column."

The copy-cutter looked at the clock. "It's eleven o'clock now," he said. "Where is it?"

"Just starting to write it upstairs. We'll get it down as fast as we can."

The copy-cutter grumbled. "Better have a make-over, then. We won't have time to handle it."

But High-Pockets knew better. He poked his head over the desk and sneaked a look at No. 7. She was grinding away. High-Pockets went back to the dump and looked at the guideline of his stickful without copy. It said, "Two Women Murdered."

But nobody would ever give out a long take like that so near closing time. He looked again. He should have known. The half-a-stickful was divided into thirds, carefully guided "First Add" and "Second Add", and at the bottom of the last add was a turned slug and a line, "More to Come."

The copy tube swished, and a carrier thumped in the box. "Here," the copy-cutter said, "here's a precede on that atomic bomb explosion. You might as well set that while we're waiting."

"Okay," said High-Pockets, and in the now hazy recesses of his mind he made a mighty resolution: he would set this take himself; No. 7 be damned.

He went straight to the machine. Mats were dropping, but High-Pockets just raised his eyebrows and reached up and turned off the power. That would stop her.

He got his copy all fixed and his arms folded in, and then he unfolded one arm and turned on the power while his right hand hovered over the keyboard. Apparently No. 7 didn't quite know what to make of this new attack, and he was able to get several lines through before she figured it out. Then she seemed to sit back and get her breath, and High-Pockets, with a wide grin on his face, manipulated the keyboard fast enough to keep the machine hung so she wouldn't get a chance on her own hook.

But eventually he had a pileup of mats and had to miss a line. He was crestfallen. But strangely enough, she didn't start in when he got the assembling elevator clear. He watched her out of the corner of his eye while he gingerly assembled the line, but nothing happened. He sent that line in and watched it go through without any disturbance, then he sat back a moment and he and the machine sized each other up. Still no mats dropped of their own volition. High-Pockets grinned. Maybe he was beginning to sober up.

He set a line and sent it in, watching. It justified and the pot came forward to cast. "Hmp," said High-Pockets. "Who said she's human? Sub-human, I call it."

Something happened when he said that. The second justification lever went up with a bang that shook the whole machine, and High-Pockets reached for the clutch lever with his left hand.

But he was so long he had to grab something with his right hand to balance, and just then the line delivery came back with a snap and smashed his right thumb.

"Ouch!" said High-Pockets, and jumped up and then he swore and shook his hand.

A minute later he sat down again with a determined gleam in his eyes. He tightened the vise-locking screws and leaned over to look at the line, down in the jaws, to be sure the mats were in alignment before he pulled the clutch. And just then the right hand locking stud came loose with a snap and spun clockwise, and the cross-handle cracked him on the chin.

High-Pockets took it like a man. He didn't even swear this time. He got out of his chair. "I will see if that line is all right," he muttered. "If I don't—"

He tightened the screw, then he got his head in under the intermediate bar to look. And at that moment a gust of air blew a cloud of graphite out of the intermediate channel and filled his right eye. He was nearly blinded, but he didn't ask for help. Very quietly he wound his way to the washroom. He cleaned his face and worked the graphite out of his eye as well as he could, and then, with a determined look on his face, went back.

Arturius reached the machine about the same time he did, "What did you leave her on the cast for?" he barked.

High-Pockets didn't answer.

Arturius indulged in some choice blasphemy with its direction divided equally between High-Pockets and No. 7. High-Pockets felt sorry for Arturius. He went to the locker room and determined to his satisfaction that the pint was still dead, then he came back. The boy had left some proofs on his machine. High-Pockets picked them up to scan them. Then he swore vigorously. "Proofreaders!" he sputtered. "Comma chasers! Look at this!" he invited the world. "Put a hyphen in the word good-will. Marked a double e in employe. Changed thous-and to thou-sand!" He clenched his fists and raised them far above his head. "Give me strength!" he groaned. "Give me strength! On top of everything else, the proofreaders have to go nuts too."

He started for the proof room, clutching the proofs in one hand. His long arms swung as he weaved among the lights. He went in the door of the proof room and stood there a moment. His head was above the lights and for a moment he couldn't see very clearly, but he demanded in his booming voice: "Who signed these proofs 'R. M. S.'?"

There was a stir in the proofroom, and then a man at the far end of the table got to his feet. "I did," he said in thunderous voice.

High-Pockets didn't back down. "What the hell do you think this is—1910?" he demanded, waving the proofs. "This is a newspaper, isn't it, not a dictionary?"

"Is it indeed?" said the man ominously, and High-Pockets thought he had heard that voice before. He stared toward the man and his eyes began to focus and then he saw who it was. A gulp started in High-Pockets' adam's-apple and traveled visibly down the full length of his body to the floor. He opened his mouth but no sound came out. His eyes became glazed like those of a man walking in his sleep.

"Your honor," he said, at last, struggling to force words from his larynx and looking like a man in a very blue funk, "there are extenuating circumstances."

Then he seemed to awaken. He looked around him. Through the glass windows of the proof room he saw a makeup man pushing a turtle to the stereotype room, and this seemed to give him a little grip on reality. He turned back with a certain air of assurance, as if he was about to take things decisively into his own hands. But he looked into His Honor's stern countenance and that assurance wilted visibly. High-Pockets retreated in confusion.

Maybe No. 7 sympathized with him. At least she allowed him to correct the proofs without any trouble. High-Pockets even began to feel that there was some feeling of friendliness flowing between them.

He was working on his next take when he felt a presence behind him. He revolved in his chair, and he very nearly fell over when he once again faced His Honor, the Judge. His Honor had a long piece of pasted copy in one hand and was waving a proof in the other. "So," His Honor said malevolently, "you're the poet."

"What are you talking about?"

"This." His Honor waved the proof under High-Pockets' nose. "You set this verse. It isn't in the copy at all."

High-Pockets felt uneasy. "Let's see." He read aloud:

"'Tis dawn in the woods. A gentleman slumbers
Beneath the protection of wild cucumbers.
The woodpeckers woodpeck, the rattlesnakes rattle,
And all the cockroaches prepare to do battle."

High-Pockets gulped. He handed the proof back to His Honor: he revolved again and folded himself into the chair. He started to set type. Then he remembered. "Your Honor," he said, "I had nothing to do with it. No. 7 did it."

His Honor, goaded by High-Pockets' temporary amnesia which looked very much like disrespect, exploded. "A machine! A machine did this?"

High-Pockets sent in the line and started another.

"Are you imputing intelligence to a machine?" His Honor demanded, and No. 7 seemed to hesitate for an instant. "No machine on earth could compose such awful poetry as this," His Honor thundered.

No. 7 was casting. For no reason at all the plunger stuck in the bottom of the well and No. 7's clutch chattered and shook the entire machine before High-Pockets shut off the power. High-Pockets revolved and looked at the judge and raised his eyebrows, then rang the bell.

This time the machinist was entirely speechless. High-Pockets pointed to the plunger. Arturius worked on it but couldn't get it loose. He got a Crescent wrench. "Get hold of the first-elevator cam," he said, "and back her up while I twist the plunger."

His Honor stood by, waiting to take up the battle with High-Pockets.

High-Pockets got hold of the cam with a sardonic set to his lips. He yanked hard. No. 7 would find out who was boss.

But when he pulled, the screw holding the end of the second elevator starting spring came loose and the spring shot the screw into High-Pockets' ribs with the force of a bullet. High-Pockets merely grunted.

"Wait, I'll take the drive clutch," Arturius said, as if he was beginning to be concerned.

High-Pockets shut off the power, and Arturius took hold of the clutch, one hand on each end, and turned forward.

The plunger started to lift. It came halfway up, and then the machine suddenly rolled backward again, with the heavy plunger spring helping it. The clutch spun like a top.

Arturius backed away holding the fingers of one hand.

"Get hurt?"

Arturius bit his lip. "No," he said, "but pull that plunger pin before I try it again."

High-Pockets pulled the pin, and Arturius got No. 7 off the cast. Then he went around to the front, took the controlling lever, and started to pull it out to finish the machine's revolution.

He saw a loose mat on the vise and reached for it with his left hand. At that instant his hand slipped off the controlling lever, and the first elevator head came down with a crash.

But Arturius' fingers were not there. He backed off and did the most thoroughly human thing he'd done in years. He thumbed his nose at No. 7. The judge looked skeptical.

"Look out!" High-Pockets yelled. "She's backing!"

His long arms moved with astonishing speed. He practically snatched the judge up from the place where he stood and set him down again two feet away. And just in time, for a stream of silvery, molten metal rose in a wide arc from the vise-jaws of No. 7 and came down exactly where His Honor's bald head had been. About three pounds of it descended to the floor and lay there hardening and smoking like an over-done pancake.

It all happened in the space of a few seconds. They had been about to set the machine in operation again when suddenly there was the sound of an angry rumble and a stream of molten lead poured forth.

Sweat popped out on the judge's bald head. His Honor's eyes were bulging. "She squirted hot lead at me!" he said accusingly. "Maliciously and with malice aforethought." He pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his bald head. His hands were steady. "If that lead had fallen on me," he said plaintively, "it would have baked my skull. Why did she try to do that to me?"

"You made fun of her poetry," High-Pockets pointed out. With a certain amount of pleasure he reflected that His Honor could hardly allege contempt, under the circumstances.

But his honor looked at High-Pockets with a new light in his eyes. "You may have saved my life," he said thoughtfully.

Arturius Wickware looked desperate. "It can't squirt," he said. "The plunger pin isn't in."

High-Pockets pointed to the metal on the floor. "It did," he said.

Arturius looked at No. 7 dourly and shut off the motor. "Please take No. 8," he begged High-Pockets. It was the first time he had said "please" in thirty years.

High-Pockets was staring at the proof like a man in a trance.

Suddenly he made half a dozen long strides to the machinist's bench. He laid hands on a twelve-pound sledge-hammer. He came back with it over his shoulder, and before the horrified Arturius could utter a word, High-Pockets had gone to the rear of No. 7 and swung the sledge in one devastating left-handed blow that sheared through the ninth and tenth cams. Then he stepped to the right and crashed the hammer down on the pot-pump cam.

He stepped back, breathing hard, the hammer over his shoulder. Pieces of cast iron tinkled to the floor. "Well," boomed High-Pockets, "I guess I fixed it, didn't I?"

There was no answer. High-Pockets looked around. Arturius had quietly fainted. The judge looked horrified.

They revived Arturius by the simple expedient of putting a screwdriver in his big hand. He opened his eyes and stared at High-Pockets and shook his head slowly, incredulously.

High-Pockets helped him up. "Don't worry," he said.

Arturius sputtered and almost detonated. "Don't worry!" he snorted. "Five hundred dollars worth of cams busted up and he says, 'Don't worry!'"

"It won't cost that much," said High-Pockets. "I'll help you piece the cams together. You can get them welded."

"No," said Arturius. "I'll get new ones."

"It won't work," said High-Pockets.

"What won't work?"

"I did that to chastise the machine. If it wants to be so independent, it will have to endure the penalties as well as enjoy the privileges. If you put in new cams, it will think it's smart and go right ahead raising hell. But if you have the old ones welded and put back in, the welds, like scars, will remind No. 7 that she's supposed to be a lady. As long as they are there, No. 7 will behave. I guarantee it."

The judge wiped his bald head again. "I do believe you've got something there, Mr. Jones. If a machine assumes the right of self-determination, what would be more natural than to treat it as you would treat any other self-determining creature?"

High-Pockets heaved a tremendous sigh of relief. He saw now that his stay in the city would not be terminated as a guest in the workhouse. High-Pockets was very happy indeed.

"How can you be sure?" Arturius demanded.

"I'll show you," said High-Pockets. "Turn on the motor."

Arturius did. A strange thing happened. No. 7 began to turn. She pulled herself off of the cast. Somehow she broke loose the hardened metal on her vise-jaws. It dropped to the floor in one big piece. She came to a normal stop and stood there obediently.

"That's utterly impossible!" Arturius shouted. "It can't even turn over—with those cams broken out."

"She's chastened," High-Pockets said gently. "All you have to do from now on is to be firm."

The judge came closer. "Mr. Jones," he said, "I am beginning to believe that even a linotype operator has a place in this modern world. Suppose we all three go out and have a drink."

High-Pockets turned off the motor. "I heard you the first time, Your Honor, and I am happy to report that there are no extenuating circumstances. Shall we go?"

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