Joe wandered into the book department. And suddenly a thought, forgotten since his last visit, was back. A magic land of books that people had forgotten! Why couldn’t their interest be aroused, awakened, and quickened? Why couldn’t they be told in such a way that they’d be eager to listen? Thomas Carlin Presents To-day’s Book.... How? Anything that went on the air had to be planned shrewdly and knowingly. How and what? An undecided boy was in the book department, and Mr. Fairchild was showing this small customer the same deference he would have shown a collector placing a large order. Pride stirred in Joe again—Thomas Carlin service. The boy went out at last with the tale he had selected. Joe’s mind still groped. Thomas Carlin Presents.... How could it be done? That it could be done he had no doubt. Thomas Carlin Presents.... His father had said: “One Carlin in radio is enough,” but that day his father had been upset. Perhaps, since then.... “Mr. Fairchild, did Dad ever say anything to you about pepping up the book department?” “Something about radio, Joe? We talked it over. Your suggestion, wasn’t it? Your father thought the cost would be prohibitive. We’d have to sell six hundred more books a week to get our money back. That’s a lot of extra books.” It was. And yet, if radio could sell clothing for Munson.... “Perhaps, if I bring it up again—” “Don’t press your radio luck too far, Joe.” Mr. Fairchild’s smile was shrewd. Joe thought: “He knows I’m not in radio with Dad’s blessing.” But his father had at least considered the idea. He might have known that would happen. He felt better. But he wasn’t, he thought stubbornly, through with the idea. Monday afternoon he auditioned at FWWO. The station was smaller than FFOM and loosely run; the audition was called for two o’clock, but it was three o’clock before he was brought into a studio. Chairs and music stands had to be pushed away from the mike. An impatient voice from the control-room said: “Keep it within ten minutes, Mr. Carlin.” Amby was not present. Joe knew he gave a poor reading. Out in the street he debated about going to the McCoy Building. What was the use? Amby’s door would be locked. He started for the bus stop at the corner, depressed. FWWO had got on his nerves. The reading had been worse than bad. “Joe! Joe Carlin!” Amby, elbowing and jostling, came hurrying through the crowds of Royal Street. Joe said: “I muffed it.” “FWWO? Forget it. Does Ambrose Carver put over his talent? Get an earful of this. FKIP’s cutting a platter. You’re in.” The flags outside the hotels along Royal Street became gay, royal banners. The weight that had come down on Joe’s heart at FWWO was gone. “A good part, Amby?”