Back in the office, with Gwynne and the others, he fought with the ancient printing press.
‘How the dickens this was ever made to function defeats me,’ Landon growled cheerfully, ink to his elbows.
‘Never such larks,’ Rud exclaimed, then more softly, ‘not for years and years.’
Once up near the front, he’d meant to get closer to the fighting, though somehow after a week he still hadn’t seen action. Maybe in a day or two. It hardly seemed to matter, nothing did, working with the others on the paper they’d named The Friend.
The riot of laughter in their dusty little cubby-hole put him in mind of Number Five Study more than once. He was starting to feel something like his old self. I’m glad I didn’t die last year in New York,’ he found himself writing.
The hideous dreams that he was back
