That was the name of their magazine. Printers, under the technical interpretation of the law. A typewriter and a duplicating machine and stencils and ink—and words.
Shakespeare, whoever he was, and Robert W. Service and Milton and an original by S. Crittington Jones.
The original was a short-short tale about a wrestler and a cowboy and a video comedian, a space-farce. There was a piece headed Editorial by Martha Klein. It had a sub-heading—For Those Who Are Willing To Fight.
It was a stirring and vigorous call to arms against the Arnold Law. It was as subversive as anything Doak had seen in his Department career.
He folded the magazine, and put it into an upper jacket pocket. He went to the third room and saw the paper stacked there and the bottles of ink and new stencils.
He went back to the stairs, and quietly down them. From the living room, he heard—
"'... From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,
That makes her loved at home, revered abroad;
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
An honest man's the noblest work of God!'"
This was more like it, except for that last line the bard had borrowed. This was the true giant, and who was quoting him? It was not the contralto voice. Who?
He moved out to the kitchen and back to his vantage point. He took off the infra-scope and looked into the living room. It was the old gent, with the beard. And who else could it be? For wasn't he the cream of the lot, the most obvious scholar, the most evident gentleman? Scholarship and breeding seemed to flow from every hair in his beard.