"Jimmy! Get in here!"

"What is it, Chief?"

The editor glowered at him around the unlit e-cigar he was forever chewing. Jimmy was the picture of panic, face pale and carroty hair standing on end. Then again, that's how he always looked; never could tell with this one.

"Now, look, kid," he said in what was probably meant to be a reasonable tone. "This rag's got a reputation for quality, right? Ever since chatbots overtook humans, we embraced technology and never looked back. Every scrap of copy is sourced from one hundred percent A.I. sources. They come proofread, grammar-checked, fact-checked — the savings in ink alone has been enormous!"

He was up and pacing now, gesturing with his e-cigar. Jimmy nodded spasmodically and dodged his waving arms.

"That's why I hired you: to weed out all the crap these humans spew in insipid reams. Ten times the sentiment and none of the... the precision we look for in fiction these days, that our readers have come to expect! And what do I find?" Here he stopped and pinned the kid with an angry glare. "Six — count 'em, six! — pieces from real living humans, all on the top of the slush pile!"

"But, sir..."

"Hell, I had to eat lunch with this guy — twice!" He shuddered. "You ever go to a restaurant with a writer? Ate his own lunch and half of mine; pocketed the dinner rolls and all the sugar packets. I thought for a minute he was gonna pinch the silverware. Gah! Save me from writers!"

He turned back to the youngster. "Which is your job, Jimmy! Save. Me. From. Writers!" He punctuated each word with a jab from his e-cigar.

With a squeaky "Yessir!" the wilted intern fled into the outer office.

His anger assuaged, the editor surveyed his domain through the glass walls of his office. Once bustling with typists, copy editors, and ambitious stringers vying for their own desks, now all he could see was row upon row of peacefully humming monitors — oh, and Grace over in back maintaining the obits. Hrm. She must be eighty by now. Surely a computer could do that job better...

* * *

Ikey frowned at his typewriter, a battered old IBM Selectric. He'd written himself into another corner, and he couldn't figure a clever escape. Ah, well; maybe he was just getting tired. He stretched and started to stand.

"Oh, Ikey!" That was his wife, coming up the stairs. "I've got your morning tea; it's that time again." She bustled into his already cramped office and passed him a steaming mug — and yes, just what he'd needed, a plate of cookies!

"You're the best, Pet," he said. "Perfect timing, too; I'd just gotten stuck again."

"Well, whatever it is, I'm sure you'll figure it out," she said. "Now, don't forget to take your vitamins. I have them right here."

He swallowed the capsules, chasing them with a sip of hot tea, and chomped on a cookie. He could feel the warmth radiating out from deep inside, and he smiled. An idea had just come to him; he had to get it down. "Thanks again, Pet," he said absently as he returned to his typing. He didn't even notice when she walked softly back down the stairs and out the door to the neighbor's.

* * *

"How's it going over here, Jen?" she asked as she came through the front door.

"Just fine. The Admiral's down in the basement, as usual, plugging away at his novel. Let me get you some coffee. How's Ikey?"

"Up in the attic swatting flies. His production's up by almost eighty percent. Oh, thanks very much," she said, sipping at the rich black nectar.

"We're awful lucky to be minding these two, aren't we, Nat? Did you hear, another Hunter just shot himself? That makes four in as many weeks, including the car wreck and the overdose." Jen shook her head, disapproving. "I know they can't all be stable, but surely there's something they can do."

"They're awful careful not to interfere with genius, you know. No sense fixing them if it means they can't produce when they're done. Remember what happened when they took away Ikey's philandering — or Bob's nudism, for that matter. I guess they all have to be just a little bit mad." Nat laughed, a bit self-consciously.

"Well, of course they do," reproved Jen. "Sane people like the world the way it is, and our boys are dreamers. It's a narrow line between dream and delusion, if it exists at all."

"I'm starting to suspect it doesn't," said her friend, rising. "Well, I'd better get these manuscripts down to the Post Office, or they never will get delivered. Why he insists on using that old typewriter when there are perfectly good computers available, I'll never know."

* * *

As she crossed the park toward the Post Office, she passed several acquaintances out on their daily rounds. In contrast to the writers in the colony, everyone else here kept to their schedules, making deliveries and running errands, even taking their dogs for walks at the proper times. The dogs were predictable as well, barking at the proper stimuli and squatting on command. It was all proper, and perfectly ordinary.

She made it to the counter with her parcels on time, just as she'd known she would, and had exact change ready for the postal clerk. "Make sure this one is stamped 'Priority'," she said. "He's late again."

The two exchanged disapproving glances, but the clerk did as he was told, of course. Everyone did. That's how they were programmed to act, and only humans disobey their programming.

* * *

The editor jumped when Jimmy tapped at the door.

"Sorry to bother you, sir," he quavered.

"Well? What is it?"

"We found the glitch in the mail system, Chief. Just a computer error. You should be getting 100% A.I. submissions from here on out."

"That's fine! Fine..." The editor's satisfied expression slowly changed to confusion. "Did you say the words computer error?"