“Suppose you come in for an audition and Dennis says you’re colossal.” Amby Carver was brisk. “Your father and mother tell the neighbors—FKIP says you’re colossal. Down the street some family thinks its daughter is colossal. They send her in, and all Dennis gives her is a ‘Thank you.’ So what? Anybody can write that answer; that’s no _Information, Please_. The girl’s mother, father, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and nieces all gang up on FKIP. Now do you see why everybody gets a ‘Thank you’ and no more? Dennis steps softly and keeps FKIP out of trouble. That’s radio.” The memory of heartache in Studio K was gone from Joe, and the warmth in him grew and swelled. “Are you with FKIP?” “Well—not officially.” Amby Carver’s voice took on a vast tolerance. “Why tie up with even a 50,000-watt station? Why cramp myself? I’m a discoverer. Actors, singers, bands, script-writers, gag men—that’s my field. Talent. I find it and market it. We all make money.” Joe caught it. “An agent?” One of the man’s hands made a flourish. “Mr. Carlin—” The boy said: “My name’s Joe.” “Mine’s Amby. Let’s go where we’ll be more comfortable and talk business.” Joe gripped the books. He had read about agents and the part they played in show business. No actor could get any place without an agent; but no agent would bother with an actor unless the actor was good. His head swam. They rode down to the lights and the ebb and flow of visitors, to the cheerfulness and blue leather of the fourth floor. The receptionist looked questioningly at Joe; he put his hands together and shook them. The blonde seemed pleased. The loudspeaker gave them Lucille Borden tough-girling through another episode of _Years of Danger_. Amby Carver led the way to one of the blue window-seats. “You’re eighteen, Joe?” “Yeah.” “How would you like me to handle you?” Joe said a fervent: “What could be sweeter?” “Not much,” Amby admitted without hesitation. “When Ambrose Carver says he’s putting a man over, that man’s over. You’re going to be a headliner, Joe; I’ll have your name in lights. I’ll have you playing coast-to-coast chain shows. I’ll—Is your father home nights?” “Except Wednesdays. That’s bowling night.” “I’ll drop in and see him to-night. About eight.” Joe couldn’t figure that. “What for?” “You’re a minor. I’ll bring a contract for your father to sign. Everything open and above-board.” A real contract, legal and binding, with a real agent! Joe’s cup was full. A man came like the wind from the glass-walled studio. Joe saw a wild disorder of reddish hair, a tan raincoat trailing along the ground from one arm, a brief-case only partly closed. Somebody cried “Vic!” and the raincoat was jerked up from the ground. The hidden voice went on: “You forgot that script.” A hand went into the brief-case, came out with a mass of papers, and waved them impatiently. Somebody came running from the direction of the glass-walled studios. “Know him?” Amby Carver asked.