n, I suppose. There's a
lot the handbook doesn't--can't--cover. You'll find the setup here
rather different from on Fizbus," he went on as he kicked open the door
neatly lettered _THE FIZBUS TIMES_ in both Fizbian and Terran. "We've
found it expedient to follow the local newspaper practice. For
instance--" he indicated a small green-feathered man seated at a desk
just beyond the railing that bisected the room horizontally--"we have a
Copy Editor."

"What does he do?" she asked, confused.

"He copies news from the other papers, of course."

"And what are _you_ doing tonight, Miss Morfatch?" the Copy Editor
asked, springing up from his desk to execute the three ritual entrechats
with somewhat more verve than was absolutely necessary.

"Having dinner with me," Stet said quickly.

"Pulling rank, eh, old bird? Well, we'll see whether position or
sterling worth will win out in the end."

As the rest of the staff crowded around Tarb, leaping and booing as
appreciatively as any girl could want, she managed to snatch a rapid
look around. The place wasn't really so very much different from a
Fizbian newsroom, once she got over the oddity of going across, not up
and down, with the desks--queerly shaped but undeniably desks--arranged
side by side instead of one over the other. There were chairs and
stools, no perches, but that was to be expected in a wingless society.
And it was noisy. Even though the little machines had stopped clattering
when she came in, a distant roaring continued, as if, concealed
somewhere close by, larger, more sinister machines continued their work.
A peculiar smell hung in the air--not unpleasant, exactly, but strange.

She sniffed inquiringly.

"Ink," Stet said.

"What's that?"

"Oh, some stuff the boys in the back shop use. The feature writers," he
went on quickly, before she could ask what the "back shop" was, "have
private offices where they can perch in comfort."

He led the way down a corridor, opening doors. "Our drama editor." He
indicated a middle-aged man with faded blue feathers, who hung head
downward from his perch. "On the lobster-trick last night writing a
review, so he's catching fifty-one twinkles now."

"Enchanted, Miss Morfatch," the critic said, opening one bright eye. "By
a curious chance, it so happens that tonight I have two tickets to--"

"Tonight she's going out with me."

"Well, I can get tickets to any play, any night. And you haven't laughed
unless you've seen