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Twenty-five years in newspapers have ruined my health, he thought. In truth, any industry would have done the same, for he was prone to worry and to drink, and his chest was weak; but it comforted him to blame his profession.
    Anyway, he had given up smoking. He had been a nonsmoker for—he looked at his watch—one hundred and twenty-eight minutes, unless he counted the night, in which case it was eight hours. He had already passed several moments of risk: immediately after the alarm clock went off at four thirty (he usually smoked one on the WC); driving away from his house, at the moment when he got into top gear and turned on the radio ready for the five o’clock news; accelerating down the first fast stretch of the A12 as his large Ford hit its stride; and waiting on a cold, open-air Tube station in East London for the earliest train of the day.
    The BBC’s five o’clock bulletin had not cheered him. It had had all his attention as he drove, for the route was so familiar that he negotiated the bends and roundabouts automatically, from memory. The lead story came from Westminster: the latest industrial relations bill had been passed by Parliament, but the majority had been narrow. Cole had caught the story the previous night on television. That meant the morning papers would certainly have it, which in turn meant that the Post could do nothing with it unless there were developments later in the day.
    There was a story about the Retail Price Index. The source would be official government statistics, which would have been embargoed until midnight: again, the mornings would have it.
    It was no surprise to learn that the car workers’ strike was still on—it would hardly have been settled overnight.
    Test cricket in Australia solved the sports editor’s problem, but the score was not sufficiently sensational for the front page.
    Cole began to worry.
    He entered the Evening Post building and took the elevator. The newsroom occupied the entire first floor. It was a huge, I-shaped open-plan office. Cole entered at the foot of the I. To his left were the typewriters and telephones of the copytakers, who would type out stories dictated over the phone; to the right, the filing cabinets and bookshelves of specialist writers—political, industrial, crime, defense, and more. Cole walked up the stem of the I, through rows of desks belonging to ordinary common or garden reporters, to the long news desk which divided the room in two. Behind it was the U-shaped subeditors’ table, and beyond that, in the crosspiece of the I, was the sports department—a semi-independent kingdom, with its own editor, reporters, and subs. Cole occasionally showed curious relatives around the place: he always told them: “It’s supposed to work like a production line. Usually it’s more like a bun fight.” It was an exaggeration, but it always got a laugh.
    The room was brightly lit, and empty. As deputy news editor, Cole had a section of the news desk to himself. He opened a drawer and took out a coin, then walked to the vending machine in Sport and punched buttons for instant tea with milk and sugar. A teleprinter chattered to life, breaking the silence.
    As Cole walked back to his desk with his paper cup, the far door bumped open. A short, gray-haired figure came in, wearing a bulky parka and cycle clips. Cole waved and called: “Morning, George.”
    “Hello, Arthur. Cold enough for you?” George began to take off his coat. The body inside it was small and thin. Despite his age, George held the title Head Lad: he was chief of the office’s team of messengers. He lived in Potters Bar and cycled to work. Arthur thought that an astonishing feat.
    Arthur put down his tea, shrugged out of his raincoat, turned on the radio, and sat down. The radio began to murmur. He sipped tea and gazed straight ahead. The newsroom was scruffy—chairs were scattered randomly, newspapers and sheets of copy paper littered the desks, and redecoration had been