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postponed in last year’s economy drive—but the scene was too familiar to register. Cole’s mind was on the first edition, which would be on the streets in three hours.
    Today’s paper would have sixteen pages. Fourteen of the first edition’s pages already existed as semicylindrical metal plates on the press downstairs. They contained advertising, features, television programs, and news written in such a way that its age would—it was hoped—be overlooked by the reader. That left the back page for the sports editor and the front page for Arthur Cole.
    Parliament, a strike, and inflation—they were all yesterday stories. There was not much he could do with them. Any of them could be dressed up with a today intro, like “Cabinet Ministers today held an inquest on the Government’s narrow escape . . .” There was one of those for every situation. Yesterday’s disaster became today’s news story with “Dawn today revealed the full horror . . .” Yesterday’s murder benefited from “Detectives today searched London for the man who . . .” Arthur’s problem had given birth to scores of cliche’s. In a civilized society, he thought, when there was no news there would be no newspapers. It was an old thought, and he brushed it out of his mind impatiently.
    Everyone accepted that the first edition was rubbish three days out of six. But that gave no comfort, because it was the reason Arthur Cole had the job of producing that edition. He had been deputy news editor for five years. Twice during that period the news editor’s chair had fallen vacant, and both times a younger man than Cole had been promoted. Someone had decided that the number-two job was the limit of his capabilities. He disagreed.
    The only way he could demonstrate his talent was by turning out an excellent first edition. Unfortunately, how good the edition was depended largely upon luck. Cole’s strategy was to aim for a paper which was consistently slightly better than the opposition’s first edition. He thought he was succeeding: whether anyone upstairs had noticed, he had no idea; and he would not let himself worry about it.
    George came up behind him and dumped a pile of newspapers on his desk. “Young Stephen’s reported sick again,” he grumbled.
    Arthur smiled. “What is it—a hangover or a runny nose?”
    “Remember what they used to tell us? ‘If you can walk, you can work.’ Not this lot.”
    Arthur nodded.
    “Am I right?” George said.
    “You’re right.” The two of them had been Lads together on the Post. Arthur had got his NUJ card after the war. George, who had not been called up, had remained a messenger.
    George said: “We were keen. We wanted to work.”
    Arthur picked up the top newspaper from the pile. This was not the first time George had complained about his staff, nor the first time Arthur had commiserated with him. But Arthur knew what was wrong with the Lads of today. Thirty years ago, a smart Lad could become a reporter; nowadays, that road was closed. The new system had a double impact: bright youngsters stayed at school instead of becoming messengers; and those who did become messengers knew they had no prospects, so they did as little work as they could get away with. But Arthur could not say this to George, because it would call attention to the fact that Arthur had done so much better than his old colleague. So he agreed that the youth of today were rotten.
    George seemed disposed to persist with his grouse. Arthur cut him off by saying: “Anything on the overnight wire?”
    “I’ll get it. Only I’ve got to do all the papers myself—”
    “I’d better see the wire copy first.” Arthur turned away. He hated to pull rank. He had never learned to do it naturally, perhaps because he took no pleasure in it. He looked at the Morning Star: they had led with the industry bill.
    It was unlikely that there would be any national news on the teletype yet; it was too early. But foreign news came in