But it was only a dream. This wetness wasn't warm--it was chilly. He finally identified it from his memories. This was rain. He stirred himself and gathered up the brown bundle that he knew must contain his suit, papers and a little money. Malloy trudged down the road toward the town that lay below the sanitarium, his collar turned up. He found he didn't mind the rain so much. It tended to settle the dust, and the walk would be a long one. * * * * * Grayson Amery, the iron-haired publisher, greeted Malloy with a firm, warm, dry handshake. "Michael, it's certainly good to see you again. You are looking well." "Yes, the bruises left by the strait jacket straps don't show," said Malloy. "A unique miscarriage of justice," Amery said. "I certainly hope it's unique. I hope there aren't any more poor devils like me locked away." Amery offered Malloy a chair with a broad, well-manicured hand. "I'm confident that there aren't. And you are out now, fortunately." "You can call it fortune if you like," Malloy said uneasily. "But you _are_ glad to be out?" Malloy hesitated. "I'm resigned to it. The flow of time washed some of the salt out of the wound. Being born is definitely a traumatic experience." "How well I remember!" Amery said. Malloy glanced at him sharply, then eased back in his chair. Of course, like everybody else, thanks to his Rider, Amery had total recall. Malloy couldn't even remember his first birthday party. "Is there any way I can be of help to you, Michael?" Amery went on. "Sure. I want my job back." Amery's forehead squeezed into lines of distress. "Yes, I was made aware of that. But, Michael, there have been a lot of changes in the publishing business since you were with us. For instance, it would be difficult for you to proofread a manuscript today." "I'm hardly the type who can't spell. I haven't forgotten that." "I know, Michael, but here--have a look at this." Amery handed over a sheet of paper. Malloy glanced at it. It seemed a typical sheet of a writer's manuscript, though a horrible yellowish gray that made the typescript from the tatters of a ribbon almost illegible. It was also smudged with jelly-doughnut fingerprints and there were several holes burned in it by droppings of cigarette ash. Pretty sloppy, but things didn't seem to have changed much. Not until he read the paper. --/Cynthia/--/ (walked) toward --/#((him))#/-- jauntily (/). "'Hi,'" --/she/--# called (out) to ((him)). "'/Hello/'", 'Sweetstuff', he / said /, ((trying)) to # sound # (gay) /.... Malloy looked up blankly. "What are all the cockeyed punctuation marks doing in there?" he asked.