Then again there wasn’t any copy. A young fellow came down from the newsroom and spoke to the copy-cutter. “There’ll be a story down for the eleven-fifteen edition,” he said. “ ‘Two Women Murdered.’ About a column.”

The copy-cutter looked at the clock. “It’s eleven o’clock now,” he said. “Where is it?”

“Just starting to write it upstairs. We’ll get it down as fast as we can.”

The copy-cutter grumbled. “Better have a makeover, then. We won’t have time to handle it.”

But High-Pockets knew better. He poked his head over the desk and sneaked a look at No. 7. She was grinding away. High-Pockets went back to the dump and looked at the guideline of his stickful without copy. It said, “Two Women Murdered.”

But nobody would ever give out a long take like that so near closing time. He looked again. He should have known. The half-a-stickful was divided into thirds, carefully guided “First Add” and “Second Add,” and at the bottom of the last add was a turned slug and a line, “More to Come.”

The copy tube swished, and a carrier thumped in the box. “Here,” the copy-cutter said, “here’s a precede on that atomic bomb explosion. You might as well set that while we’re waiting.”

“Okay,” said High-Pockets, and in the now hazy recesses of his mind he made a mighty resolution: he would set this take himself; No. 7 be damned.

He went straight to the machine. Mats were dropping, but High-Pockets just raised his eyebrows and reached up and turned off the power. That would stop her.