"Dusty, I'd like to help. I do know what the score is. It's hopeless. You're trapped in an awkward position. And like a lot of other people, you are in a position where you can't do a damned thing about it. So you might as well save your high blood pressure and start looking around to see what you can make out of it." Dusty finished his drink and left. In a trash-can by the alley was a Dusty Britton Blaster, complete with holster and a tin medal for sharpshooting. The school-store across the street was displaying a Jack Vandal mask and a small case containing ten candy cigarettes and a secret compartment suitable for concealing ten-thousand dollar bills lifted from lawless characters who might have used the dough to bribe juries or buy professional gunmen. Dusty made his way along the street unrecognized. * * * * * The guard at the front gate looked at Dusty with suspicion. Dusty looked back defiantly; for a number of years the guard had practically bowed thrice as Dusty approached, Dusty hoped that the habit of deference was well established. "Have you a pass, Mr. Britton?" "Now see here, Sam, I don't need a pass and--" "Mr. Britton, I've got orders to--" "Look Sam. Let's not stall. I want in and I'm going to--" "One minute, Mr. Britton. I'll have to call." Dusty grunted. "I want to see Doctor Ross." "Oh. Well, just a minute." The guard called, and Dusty could hear the roar of Martin Gramer, "Throw the louse out!" "Sorry, Mr. Britton. We can't let you in." "Look, Sam, I've got trouble. You've got trouble. Do you remember your younger days, Sam? When you were the top boy at Graphic Arts?" "Sure do. Great days, too." "What happened, Sam?" The smile faded from Sam's face. "I got too old." "Sam, all I want is to gab with Dr. Ross for a minute or two. I've got a great idea. And I'll make you a promise, Sam." "Promise?" "Sure. I'll promise you that if you let me in right now, and this idea of mine goes through, that I'll see that you get a good bit in anything I'm in. We'll work it up from character actor until you're playing bigger and bigger bits. You can make a comeback, Sam, and I'll help you then if you help me now. How's about it?" Sam looked through the studio gates for a moment, and the thinking could almost be seen in operation. He had darned little to lose; he could always blame Dusty's entrance on some dreamed-up excuse, and if Dusty's idea worked, he might even be able to take credit for having used some initiative. "It's a deal, Mr. Britton. But don't forget me." "I won't." Dusty went inside, found the main idea-office, and talked himself into the office of Dr. Ross. These hurdles he found less difficult than the front gate; possibly due to the fact that once a man was inside the fence, everyone thought he belonged there. Doctor Harold Ross greeted Dusty with surprise. "Dusty! How goes it?" "Not good. I'm a professional louse." "How come?"