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.