Again George looked in, his face hopeful but puzzled, and again I waved him back.
My fingers ached from tearing sheets of copy out of the book, my arms ached from shoveling metal, my legs from walking to the bank and back, and other parts of me ached from sitting down.
Eight o’clock. Nine. Ten volumes completed and only two more to go. But it ought—it was working. Etaoin Shrdlu was slowing down.
It seemed to be setting type more thoughtfully, more deliberately. Several times it stopped for seconds at the end of a sentence or a paragraph.
Then slower, slower.
And at ten o’clock it stopped completely and sat there, with only a faint hum coming from the motor housing, and that died down until one could hardly hear it.
I stood up, scarcely daring to breathe until I’d made certain. My legs trembled as I walked over to the tool bench and picked up a screwdriver. I crossed over and stood in front of Etaoin Shrdlu and slowly—keeping my muscles tensed to jump back if anything happened—I reached forward and took a screw out of the second elevator.
Nothing happened, and I took a deep breath and disassembled the vise-jaws.
Then with triumph in my voice, I called out, “George!” and he came running.
“Get a screwdriver and a wrench,” I told him. “We’re going to take it apart and—well, there’s that big hole in the yard. We’ll put it in there and fill up the hole. Tomorrow you’ll have to get yourself a new Linotype, but I guess you can afford that.”