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," hishonor began a little ambiguously, "a linotype operator is very nearthe bottom of the scale of humanity. There is only one person whostands beneath him. That is the poet." The judge's eyes turned full onHigh-Pockets, all seven gangling feet of him. "You," the judge saidominously, "are both."
High-Pockets waited in dread. He had a premonition that this wasn'teven going to be a nice jail sentence where he could meditate andreflect on his strange power over linotypes. This was going to be theworkhouse. 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 opportunityfor research. As an old proofreader, I occasionally help out on theDaily News, and it has come to my attention that there is a linotypeon 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 HisHonor had once been a proofreader. The traditional enmity betweenproofreaders and operators, High-Pockets perceived, was about to bejudicially resolved. So he cringed. He was very sad.
"Suppose you go up there and try your wizardry on No. 7." His Honorsuggested. "In the meantime, thirty days suspended sentence. If you'reback here before your time is up, it will be sixty days. And if thereis drunkenness connected with it," he said, looking disdainfully atHigh-Pockets' red nose, "it will be ninety. Is that clear?"
"Yes, your honor." High-Pockets mumbled, but he was thinking of otherthings. He had been sentenced to work at his trade. That meant contactwith proofreaders, and High-Pockets bristled. But the bristlingsubsided rapidly, as High-Pockets, simulating a grateful smile fromlong habit, realized with a sickly feeling that for perhaps the firsttime in his long career, a proofreader had had the complete and finalword, and High-Pockets did not dare to answer back....
They spotted High-Pockets coming across the composing-room of theDaily News when they saw a red nose following an eccentric orbit upamong the fluorescent lights. High-Pockets didn't exactly duck thelights. When he came face to face with one, his incredibly tall kneeslimbered up and he sort of weaved under it.
The union chairman met him with a handshake. "High-Pockets Jones," hesaid, grinning, "Dean of Barnstormers and Wizard of the Linotype. Iknow you from your picture. Can you really make a linotype stand up onits hind legs and talk?"
"Well," High-Pockets said in a modest, booming voice, "I will admitthat'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!" heboomed. "Can't do it! Haven't worked five days straight in twentyyears."
"But look, High-Pockets. Look at it this way. You're an old-timebarnstormer, aren't you?"
High-Pockets winced.
"Well," the chairman said diplomatically, "there's not as much call forbarnstormers as there used to be, but—" he said it quickly—"here's anew field.