Malloy glanced at him sharply, then eased back in his chair. Of course, like everybody else, thanks to his Rider, Amery had total recall. Malloy couldn't even remember his first birthday party.
"Is there any way I can be of help to you, Michael?" Amery went on.
"Sure. I want my job back."
Amery's forehead squeezed into lines of distress. "Yes, I was made aware of that. But, Michael, there have been a lot of changes in the publishing business since you were with us. For instance, it would be difficult for you to proofread a manuscript today."
"I'm hardly the type who can't spell. I haven't forgotten that."
"I know, Michael, but here—have a look at this."
Amery handed over a sheet of paper.
Malloy glanced at it. It seemed a typical sheet of a writer's manuscript, though a horrible yellowish gray that made the typescript from the tatters of a ribbon almost illegible. It was also smudged with jelly-doughnut fingerprints and there were several holes burned in it by droppings of cigarette ash. Pretty sloppy, but things didn't seem to have changed much. Not until he read the paper.
—/Cynthia/—/ (walked) toward —/#((him))#/— jauntily (/).
"'Hi,'" —/she/—# called (out) to ((him)).