The book had been thrown at Charles Farradyne. Then they had added the composing room, the printing press and the final grand black smear of printer’s ink. So when Howard Clevis located Farradyne working in the fungus fields of Venus four years later, he found a beaten man who no longer burned with resentment because he was all burned out. Farradyne looked up dully when Clevis came into the squalid rooming house.
“I am Howard Clevis,” said the visitor.
“Fine,” mumbled Farradyne. “So?” He looked at one of the few white shirts in a thousand miles and grunted disapprovingly.
“I’ve a job for you, Farradyne.”
“Who do you want killed?”
“Take it easy. You’re the Charles Farradyne who—”
“Who dumped the Semiramide into The Bog, and you’re Santa Claus, here to undo it?”
“This is on the level,
