Six words went around and around in Joe’s head: “The best producer in the city.” His heart was a hammer. Following Wylie, he found himself in the strangest room he had ever seen, a room that spoke of a preoccupation which brushed aside as trivial matters that would have been important to other men. A wide flat desk, that must at one time have been beautiful, was charred with hundreds of black scars as though an absorbed man had carelessly laid down lighted cigarettes and then forgotten them. There was a disordered stack of papers, probably scripts. There was a lustrous radio as badly cigarette-burned as the desk. There were dozens of photographs on the walls—autographed photographs of men and women who were important in radio, in Hollywood, and on the stage. The cushions of chairs and of a settee, badly scuffed and lumped out of shape, suggested long hours of feverish argument when comfort was ignored. But strangest of all was the absence of what had been the highlight of Amby’s office, a dead, unwired, rehearsal microphone. Or was it, Joe wondered, so very strange? Wylie, from a swivel chair behind the desk, shot out a command. “Give me your background.” “Eighteen,” said Joe. “High-school graduate. Four years in high-school plays. Made the cast my first year.” “So you’ve decided you’re an actor?” “I don’t know. I hope I am.” “Anybody in show business give you any encouragement?” “Ambrose Carver. He’d heard about me and came to Northend High for the June play. He told FKIP to call me in for an immediate audition.” “Who gave you that story? Carver? Is he your agent?” “Yes.” “Written contract or verbal agreement?” “My father signed a contract.” “All nicely poisoned with legality.” Wylie’s voice was acid. He swung around in the chair and sat with his back to the room, nervously tense. Abruptly he swung back as though jerked by invisible wires. “I’m giving you a chance at something that may never happen. Munson’s store wants a serial. That’s no secret; everybody in radio knows it.” Wonder was sharp in Joe. Was that why Amby had known, because everybody else had known? The producer went on in a nervous rush of words. “The Everts-Hall Agency has the Munson account. They haven’t been able to come up with a show Munson’ll O.K. We’re giving it a whirl. We have our own ideas about the kind of show Munson should have. A heroine for the lead because a department store sells mostly to women. A widow fighting to give her son a chance in life. _Sue Davis Against the World_. You’re Dick Davis, the son. You’re fifteen. You want to get out of school and help.” Wylie tossed a script across the desk. “Page four. Read me the speech beginning ‘Mother, don’t shake your head....’” The chair swung again and the man’s back was to the room. Joe Carlin found the place. Joe Carlin, who was becoming a veteran, who had had three station auditions, who had rehearsed a show and cut a platter for FKIP began to read: Dick: Mother, don’t shake—