The -North Coast News- came out three times a week, and it seemed to him that no one could publish a paper unless someone in charge was on hand until the press run. He knew that the publisher, Stuart Winkle, didn't care particularly, as long as the advertising was in place, but it wasn't right, Eddie thought. What if something came up, something went wrong? Even out here at the end of the world there could be a late-breaking story that required someone to write it, to see that it got placed. Actually, Eddie's hopes for that event, high six years ago, had diminished to the point of needing conscious effort to recall them even. In fact, he liked to see his editorials before he packed it in. This night, Thursday, he read his own words and then bellowed, "Where is she?" -She- was Ruthie Jenson, and -she- had spelled frequency with one -e- and an -a-. Eddie stormed through the deserted outer office looking for her, and caught her at the door just as she was wrapping her vampire cloak about her thin shoulders.
