Joe had an idea that Vic, with a passion for perfection, would still seek perfection. “No producer around here pays rehearsal time,” he pointed out. Tony chuckled. “Vic should be glad of that; he’d go broke. Besides, Vic’s a free agent; we’re salaried employees. We have just so many hours to spend on a show. If Vic doesn’t like a show he won’t touch it; over here, all we can do is try to steer a client away from a bad egg. If he still wants the egg, we have to produce it. If we were right and it turns out to be a bad egg, he insists that it’s our fault, that we gave him a bad show. You’ll get to know all about eggs over here, Joe; we walk on them all day long. We try to smooth the sponsor, we try to smooth Everts-Hall, we try to smooth the script-writer and the cast. Sometimes it takes some doing.” “The most miles to the gallon of pleasant gas,” said Joe. Tony glanced at him sharply. “You might call it that. Did you know Mrs. Munson helped Amby Carver to hook himself a job with her husband?” “Did Amby get it?” This was news to Joe. “Is that a warning?” “Now, now, Joe.” Tony spread placating hands. “We have to remember that he has Munson’s ear. Temporarily, anyway. Munson doesn’t really want him, and, some fine day, Munson’ll toss him out. But while he’s there, he’s there. Hold down the fort and remember your eggs. When in doubt, tread softly. I’ll be at FKIP until eleven.” A literary agent arrived with a platter, and another platter came by express. “The show radio’s been waiting for,” the agent assured Joe earnestly. “Tell Tony to move fast if he wants an option.” A boy laid mail on Tony’s desk, and in the mail were three scripts. The scripts were accompanied by letters; each letter claimed that here was the show for which radio had been panting. The platters would have to be indexed and auditioned, the scripts would have to be indexed and read. An Everts-Hall account executive demanded to know when Tony would return. Joe began to understand why the ruddy, genial producer could give only so much time, and no more, to a show. Curt Lake brought in a week’s run of _Sue Davis_ script. “I thought you gave these to Vic,” Joe said. “Carbons. Reading copies. Everybody reads—agency, sponsor, producer. Sometimes I think they call in a traffic cop. Anybody may throw a red flag and then you may have to rewrite. Munson never used to bother with script, but now he has a public relations radio counsel—Mr. Carver. When Vic goes into rehearsal, he’s using script with a production O.K.” “Do you do much rewriting?” Joe was thinking of a _Thomas Carlin Presents_ script that would never be rewritten. “Some,” Curt said dryly. Ten minutes later the telephone rang. “Mr. Carver,” said the girl outside.