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.