In the control-room the stout man said impatiently: “What does a kid of his age know about death? Why do they come in here and try to read stuff crammed with emotion? They’re not mature enough.” He pressed a button and at once the two-way mike was open so that Joe could hear what was said in the control-room. “Anything else, Mr. Carlin?” “Deval’s _Tovarich_,” said Joe, “adapted by Mr. Sherwood.” This was more like his own voice. He brought another book to the mike. “Mikail and Tatiana, formerly chamberlain and lady-in-waiting at the Russian court, are in Paris without a franc. Tatiana has suggested that they go into domestic service as butler and housemaid. Mikail speaks in excitement: “‘My sainted darling! I believe it is possible! I see myself again, throwing open the windows of the Imperial Palace and announcing: “Majesty, there is snow”—and then, with perfect grace, presenting belt and tunic to Nicholas Alexandrovitch. And you doing the fair hair of Her Imperial Highness, fetching her gloves, telling poor Frederiks that her Majesty will not be visible to-day. We were good servants, Tatiana. We will be good servants again! I must find my boots!’”[2] The stout man sighed and touched the button. “Haven’t you anything a little more juvenile?” Joe said an uncertain: “Well—” Evidently he hadn’t been so hot. He went over to the wall and brought back another book. “How is he?” the brisk man with the thin mustache asked in the control-room. John Dennis, director of programs for FKIP, shrugged. Joe was back at the mike. “A twenty-two-year-old boy has inherited a factory. But he finds the factory closed as the result of a trade war. A friendly old lawyer advises him to sell it for what he can get. The boy speaks: “‘I inherited a property worth $35,000. Can I get $35,000 for it? No. Why? Because one man says I can’t have its value. One man says he’ll leave me penniless if I try to create its value. A dollar isn’t worth a dollar up here; it’s only worth what Jake Grimmer says it’s worth. I can’t swallow anything like that. Maybe I’m a fool for not accepting $7,000 for the plant and letting them short-change me out of $28,000—$7,000 would be better than nothing. But if I took that $7,000, for the rest of my life I’d be licked. A shadow would be walking at my side day and night and talking to me. What about Eastport? Why had I let them kick me out and refuse me what was mine? Don’t you see, Mr. Graves? I wouldn’t be selling the factory for $7,000. I’d be selling my self-respect.’” In the control-room John Dennis said: “There you are, Amby. That was much better: he wasn’t shooting at rôles out of his reach. A good voice when he doesn’t strain it.” Ambrose Carver’s interest quickened. “Think he has something, John?” “I have a show in mind. I may be able to use him.”