“Page one if you can make room for it, Sam.”

Sam spread the sheets out and read the lead. “Hot stuff, eh, Tim? This is getting to be like old times.”

“Yeh. Like old times.” He laid a friendly hand on the older man’s shoulder and turned away, stopped in the doorway to roll and light a cigarette.

The brown cylinder was half-smoked when Tommy came down the steps with Bronson’s okayed copy in his hand. Rourke stopped him and asked, “Old man like it all right?”

“Sure. He quit chewin’ on his cigar while he read it.”

“I’ll take it to Sam. You’d better beat it back upstairs to see if some of the others need you. Pretty close to deadline.”

“Sure.” Tommy took the stairs two at the time. Rourke followed him slowly, tearing the typewritten sheets into narrow strips and stuffing them in his pocket.

Upstairs, he went to his desk and stood for a moment with his hand on the back of his chair, looking soberly at the typewriter on which he had pounded out copy for almost 20 years. It was a lumbering old-fashioned machine, but it suited him and his one-finger punching. He wished he could take it with him. He knew he would have a hell of a time getting accustomed to another typewriter.

He sat down and started gathering his personal belongings from the desk drawers. No one paid any attention to him. He stuffed all the memoranda on stories he had done, and stories he had planned to do, in his pockets. He then rolled a sheet of paper in the typewriter and looked at his watch.

It was 12:18. He typed the date and added, 12:18 p.m. Below that heading he typed, The hell you do. I’ve already quit. He typed his name and left the sheet of paper in the roller.

He got up and put on his coat, strolled out, nodding and lifting his hand casually to two or three who looked up and spoke to him.