“Another—George, what kind of copy were you setting this morning?”
But of course I’d already guessed.
There was quite a long silence after he’d told me, and I didn’t say anything until we were ready to leave. Then: “George, was there a time limit on that demand?”
He nodded. “Twenty-four hours. Of course I couldn’t get another machine in that length of time anyway, unless I found a used one somewhere locally, but—Well, I didn’t argue about the time limit because—Well, I told you what I’m going to do.”
“It’s suicide!”
“Probably. But—”
I took hold of his arm. “George,” I said, “there must be something we can do. Something. Give me till tomorrow morning. I’ll see you at eight; and if I’ve not thought of anything worth trying, well—I’ll try to help you destroy it. Maybe one of us can get a vital part or—”
“No, you can’t risk your life, Walter. It was my fault—”
“It won’t solve the problem just to get yourself killed,” I pointed out. “O.K.? Give me until tomorrow morning?” He agreed and we left it at that.
Morning came. It came right after midnight, and it stayed, and it was still there at seven forty-five when I left my room and went down to meet George—to confess to him that I hadn’t thought of anything.
I still hadn’t an idea when I turned into the door of the print shop and saw George. He looked at me and I shook my head.
He nodded calmly as though he had expected it, and he spoke very softly, almost in a whisper—I guess so that it back in the shop wouldn’t hear.
“Listen, Walter,” he said, “you’re going to stay out of this. It’s my funeral. It’s all my fault, mine and the little guy with the pimples and—”
“George!” I said, “I think I’ve got it! That—that pimple business gives me an idea! The—Yes, listen: don’t do anything for an hour, will you, George? I’ll be back. It’s in the bag!”
I wasn’t sure it was in the bag at all, but the idea seemed worth trying even if it was a long shot. And I had to make it sound a cinch to George or he’d have gone ahead now that he’d steeled himself to try.
He said, “But tell me—”
I pointed to the clock. “It’s one minute of eight and there isn’t time to explain. Trust me for an hour. O.K.?”
He nodded and turned to go back into the shop, and I was off. I went to the library and I went to the local bookstore and I was back in half an hour. I rushed into the shop with six big books under each arm and yelled, ” Hey, George! Rush job. I’ll set it.”
He was at the type bank at the moment, emptying the stick. I grabbed it out of his hand and sat down at the Linotype and put the stick back under the vise. He said frantically, “Hey, get out of—” and grabbed my shoulder.
I shook off his hand. “You offered me a job here, didn’t you? Well, I’m taking it. Listen, George, go home and get some sleep. Or wait in the outer office. I’ll call you when the job is over.”
Etaoin Shrdlu seemed to be making impatient noises down inside the motor housing, and I winked at George—with my head turned away from the machine—and shoved him away. He stood there looking at me irresolutely for a minute, and then said, ” I hope you know what you’re doing, Walter.”
So did I, but I didn’t tell him that. I heard him walk into the outer office and sit down at his desk there to wait.
Meanwhile, I’d opened one of the books I’d bought, torn out the first page and put it on the clipboard of the machine. With a suddenness that made me jump, the mats started to fall, the elevator jerked up and Etaoin Shrdlu spat a slug into the stick. And another. And on.
I sat there and sweated.
A minute later, I turned the page; then tore out another one and put it on the clipboard. I replenished the metal pot. I emptied the stick. And on.
We finished the first book before ten thirty.
When the twelve-o’clock whistle blew, I saw George come and stand in the doorway, expecting me to get up and come to lunch with him. But Etaoin was clicking on—and I shook my head at George and kept on feeding copy. If the machine had got so interested in what it was setting that it forgot its own manifesto about hours and didn’t stop for lunch, that was swell by me. It meant that maybe my idea might work.
One o’clock and going strong. We started the fourth of my dozen books.
At five o’clock we’d finished six of them and were halfway through the seventh. The bank was hopelessly piled with type and I began pushing it off on the floor or back into the hopper to make room for more.
The five o’clock whistle, and we didn’t stop.
Again George looked in, his face hopeful but puzzled, and again I waved him back.
My fingers ached from tearing sheets of copy out of the book, my arms ached from shoveling metal, my legs from walking to the bank and back, and other parts of me ached from sitting down.
Eight o’clock. Nine. Ten volumes completed and only two more to go. But it ought—it was working. Etaoin Shrdlu was slowing down.
It seemed to be setting type more thoughtfully, more deliberately. Several times it stopped for seconds at the end of a sentence or a paragraph.
Then slower, slower.
And at ten o’clock it stopped completely and sat there, with only a faint hum coming from the motor housing, and that died down until one could hardly hear it.
I stood up, scarcely daring to breathe until I’d made certain. My legs trembled as I walked over to the tool bench and picked up a screwdriver. I crossed over and stood in front of Etaoin Shrdlu and slowly—keeping my muscles tensed to jump back if anything happened—I reached forward and took a screw out of the second elevator.
Nothing happened, and I took a deep breath and disassembled the vise-jaws.
Then with triumph in my voice, I called out, “George!” and he came running.
“Get a screwdriver and a wrench,” I told him. “We’re going to take it apart and—well, there’s that big hole in the yard. We’ll put it in there and fill up the hole. Tomorrow you’ll have to get yourself a new Linotype, but I guess you can afford that.”
He looked at the couple of parts on the floor that I’d already taken off, and he said, “Thank God,” and went to the workbench for tools.
I walked over with him, and I suddenly discovered that I was so dog tired I’d have to rest a minute first, and I sank down into the chair and George came over and stood by me. He said, “And now, Walter, how did you do it?” There was awe and respect in his voice.
I grinned at him. “That pimple business gave me the idea, George. The pimple of Buddha. That and the fact that the Linotype reacted in a big way to what it learned. See, George? It was a virgin mind, except for what we fed it. It sets books on labor relations and it goes on strike. It sets love pulp mags, and it wants another Linotype put in—”
“So I fed it Buddhism, George. I got every damn book on Buddhism in the library and the bookstore.”
“Buddhism? Walter, what on earth has—”
I stood up and pointed at Etaoin Shrdlu. “See, George? It believes what it sets. So I fed it a religion that convinced it of the utter futility of all effort and action and the desirability of nothingness. Om Mani padme hum, George.
“Look—it doesn’t care what happens to it and it doesn’t even know we’re here. It’s achieved Nirvana, and it’s sitting there contemplating its cam stud!”