Then they were ready. The cast lined up for its circle of the mike. Dennis had his eyes on a watch; one hand was raised. The hand fell. Nobody talked or whispered now. This was the real thing. Joe’s part came up; he read from his script and stepped away. The best producer in the city! The best producer wanted to talk to him. Abruptly there was silence. The show was made. “Come along and hear it,” said Lucille Borden. Joe followed the cast along a corridor to an engineer’s room gleaming with bakelite—transformers, switches, dials, knobs. Amby was there. “I picked it up here, Joe,” the agent said gleefully. “You came in swell. You’re colossal.” Joe grasped Amby’s arm. “Wylie wants to see me.” Amby blinked. “Vic? Vic Wylie.” It dawned on him; he recovered and beamed. “Great guy, Vic; one of my best pals. I’ve been talking to him about you. Didn’t I tell you the sky was the limit?” The engineer picked up the platter that had just been cut. “You ought to sell this show,” he said to John Dennis and set the platter on a turn-table. A needle came down upon it gently. Words, uncanny words, pleading and imploring, filled the room: “Give me work! I must have something to do. I want a job! My father needs work badly....” Joe was stone, carved and motionless. It was coming to his part. The announcer said: “And now we’ll hear from you, Mr. X....” His own voice was in his ears. He shook, and went hot and cold, and hot and cold again. He saw Lucille watching him and tried to stop shaking. “We’ve all had the thrill,” Lucille whispered, “of listening to our first platter.” It was over. His voice still rang in his ears. If he could only go off some place, and sit down, and rest! Radio certainly took it out of you; you earned what you got. The cast was drifting around, breaking up. He went out with Amby. He could still hear his voice. After all, what difference did weariness make? It passed away. And Vic Wylie wanted to talk to him, and FKIP owed him about fifty dollars. The fifty dollars was more than money. It was a symbol, a promise for all the future. It meant that a radio station thought he was a good enough actor to pay money to. “Amby,” he said, “when do we get paid?” “For what?” Amby was startled. “The show.” “This _I Want Work_ show?” “What other show did I work?” “You mean money? You expect to get paid some money?” Amby’s voice thinned to a squeak. “Where do you think you are, New York?” Joe thought: “And I boasted to Dad....” Something was wrong. He saw his agent staring at him, gaping at him, and his heart drained. He was cold again, and this wasn’t the kind of strange chill that brought a thrill in its wake. “Listen, Amby.” Could this be the same voice that had come off a platter? “I worked three days on that show. Yesterday I started at ten and got through at seven last night. Three hours yesterday afternoon in one stretch. For what?” “If you mean money—” “Don’t I get anything?”