The apartment was in a building that had never had a celebrated tenant from the entertainment business. As a result, the staff was stage-struck and dying to get into the act. The doorman cultivated a Low Dutch dialect. His eager expression informed Lennox that he was ready for Discovery. The elevator man had worked up a comedy monologue in Irish, Cockney and Chinese. He also was ready. At the top floor, Lennox rang Mason's doorbell, opened the door and entered with the photographer. The apartment was never locked. They came into a bare foyer, the size of a boxing ring. It was ankle deep in wall-to-wall blue carpeting. Lennox called: "Mig? It's Jake Lennox." No answer. They went through an archway into a bare living room the size of a tennis court. It was naked except for wall-to-wall grey carpeting. "Mig!" Lennox called again. No answer. They peeked into the dining room and two of the bedrooms, all empty and bare except for wall-to-wall carpeting. "Must be out buying furniture," the photographer said. Lennox shouted again, then listened. He heard the faint sound of music. They followed it and found Mason in the study. It was the size of a study with wall-to-wall green carpeting. It was empty except for a giant TV set with a thirty inch screen in the corner. A silver plate on it proclaimed that it was the gift of the network to their well-beloved Mig Mason & Diggy Dixon. Before the set was a bridge table at which Mason and his wife were seated, silently eating canned hamburgers and watching the screen. Mason glanced up. "The Thinker," he said morosely and turned back to the screen. "The Thinker," Irma said. "_Bon appetit._ French for it smells good," Lennox answered cheerfully. "Mig, I haven't had a chance to congratulate you. You were great Christmas night. Sensational. It was a great show. Sensational. Your timing was great. Your gags were sensational. It's great working with you, Mig. You make any writer look sensational." "Thanks, Jake." Mason looked modest. "Thanks," Irma said, "Was it St. Nicholas?" Mason asked abruptly. "Of course it was St. Nicholas." "Then I was right. It was that phone girl that loused me." "Of course you were right." "Why didn't you say so?" Mason demanded. "You're all trying to louse me." "Did I say you were wrong?" "You didn't say I was right." "Because I work for Grabinett. Have a heart, Mig. You're a great star. You can tell anybody off. But I haven't got your sensational talent. I have to work for a living. Be kind to the hired help." The scowl disappeared from Mason's face. It also disappeared from Irma's face. "I've brought a photographer for some pictures," Lennox continued briskly. "We're nominating you for Comedian of The Year, and by God you're going to be elected." Mason brightened. "Not in those clothes," Irma said. "He's got to get dressed up." "Never mind the clothes," Mason complained. "What about the background? There's no furniture in the house."