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.