is watch for typographical errors and change them the way the author wanted them if his fingers hadn't tripped over the wrong keys. As it was, we used to get a good many complaints from writers about you making changes in their work."

"Grammar," Malloy explained. "I got kind of a bug about grammar. I used to fix up manuscripts some."

Rubbing out his fat cigar, Amery leaned across his desk. "This isn't like the good old days when I started out, Mike. If I had my way today, I'd get the National Guard ordered out and have those miserable slobs grind out stories with a bayonet at their backs!" The red gleam dimmed in Amery's eyes. "Those were the days, by God! Back then you didn't edit manuscripts with any dinky little blue pencil—you used a razor blade and a grease stick!"

Amery slumped down in his swivel, his eyes now only embers. "But that day is over, Mike. Writers have their rights, damn them. You get the wrong punctuation in one of their private-eye epics, Mike, and one of them will slap a suit against the company for defacing a Work of Art, and both of us could land in jail."

"Westerns," Malloy suggested in desperation. "Historical fiction. They can't employ the new punctuation. I could edit them."

The veteran publisher shook his head again. "No. Cowboys in westerns today turn your stomach more than ever with their damned nobility and purity. Heroines in historical novels act just as if deodorants and Living Bras had been in use back then. And these stories are written as if the characters did have Riders, with only a few minor concessions."

"Okay." Malloy stood up. "I'll go quietly."

"Maybe you're lucky, Mike," Amery said up at him. "I remember old-fashioned ideals like privacy and free will and free enterprise. They don't exist any more. You can't tell me that my free will hasn't been affected. Why, every business deal I've had since the Coming has been strictly ethical. You know that isn't like me!"

"No," Malloy admitted thoughtfully.

"I'm even so ethical now that I recognize I owe you something. I know money can't repay—"

"Hell it can't," Malloy said quickly.

The publisher stripped off a sheaf of bills with deliberation.

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