"Oh, Abe. Me. Probably the producing team." "It's always a team today, they just don't have a producer any more, do they?" "Just a few of us. Six people, maybe. Seven." "Just lines?" "Well, mostly, yeah. We may have a piano there." The corner of Richie's mouth turned up again. "I _can_ carry a tune, you know." Feldt laughed. "Sure, sure. But just to see how it sounds and all." Richie stared at him, not smiling. Feldt turned off his own laughter. He shrugged. "What the hell, Van, 1941. We got a bundle in this one. We're taking no chances. None." Outside, the secretary's typewriter chattered unevenly. Richie blew a smoke ring. "Okay," he said, feeling suddenly tired, "Any time you say." Feldt walked to the elevators with him. "Incidentally, Van, I hate to ask, but what's with the sauce problem these days?" Richie shook his head. "Seven years. Eight now, in fact." "Oh, great. That's great." "And for your information, it never was what you'd call a problem." "Well, the papers and all, y'know. We couldn't tell." The elevator doors hissed open. "Thanks for coming up, fella. See you tomorrow." Halfway down, the only other man in the car looked up, startled. "Pardon?" "I said 'son of a bitch'," Van Richie said. "With feeling." * * * * * "Good God, you can't even _hear_ him!" one of the men whispered. Someone else in the darkened theatre called, "Hold it! Can you give it a little more, Van? We can't hear it out here." Van Richie squinted toward the seats. "Are the mikes up?" "All the way. You're going to have to push it." The piano resumed. Richie's voice was true but small. The whisperer groaned. "He could use that old megaphone right about now." When the number was over, Richie came down from the stage and joined them. "You need help, Van," Feldt said bluntly. "What about it, Ben?" They all turned to a man sitting alone, several rows back. "You don't want a lapel mike?" Ben asked, coming slowly down the aisle. "Too much cable trailing around. There'll be dancers all over that stage." "Lavalier the same thing?" "The same thing." "Look, why hide it?" asked the man who'd mentioned the megaphone. "Just fly a pencil mike. When he's ready, drop it down." "It breaks the mood," one of the writers said. "Nuts, the mood. You can't _hear_ him." "There's one thing we can do...." "A microphone out of the sky?" the writer groaned. "Awright, a floor mike, then." "There is one thing," the electrician began again. "What's that, Ben?" "Well, it isn't cheap." "Of course not," the senior member of the producing team said. "You mind if you look a little fat, Mr. Richie?" "Not if they can hear me, Ben. What's the gimmick?" They listened grimly to the electrician's plan. Feldt glanced at Richie. He looked old and tired and small. God, Feldt thought, I hope we haven't pulled a rock. * * * * *