“What’s Vic got you reading, Joe, the Munson show? Dick Davis? A fat part. Lucille Borden auditioned for Sue Davis. No dice. Vic’s giving the part to Stella Joyce. You remember her. She worked the _I Want Work_ platter.” Joe remembered the small, bird-like woman with the fluttering, bird-like voice. “What was the matter with Lucille?” “Too much on the Tug-Boat Annie side. The script makes Sue Davis the self-sacrificing mother type. The part wants sweetness and light. Stella fits. That’s the curse of show business, Joe; you get typed, and that’s the only way they want you.” Joe thought: “What’s the difference so long as they want you?” The telephone was never still for long. He tried to concentrate on yesterday’s rehearsal, to run lines through his mind, but the closed inner door proved a disturbing fascination. Every time that door opened, Wylie’s quick, nervous voice reached the outer office with some talk of radio. “Another year of sitting hour after hour in producers’ offices,” Archie Munn’s deep voice rumbled, “and they’ll stick pins in me to see if I’m alive.” Show business throbbed through the rooms like a living pulse. Somebody came in from FKIP and passed inside. Somebody else arrived whom Joe remembered having seen at FFOM. Two girls walked in and talked to Miss Robb. They were singers, Joe gathered; a sister act; part of a road company that had disbanded. Miss Robb explained that Wylie produced only radio dramatic sketches and eased them out. Then a beefy, red-faced man was with them. “Howdy, folks, howdy,” he called and joined Wylie in the inner room. Archie Munn, sitting on his spine in a chair tilted against the wall, pulled in his long legs. “Tony Vaux, Joe. If we’re lucky, we’ll see a lot of that boy. Head of Everts-Hall’s radio department. Munson’s agency. If _Sue Davis Against the World_ goes on the air he’ll be handing us our checks every week.” The actor glanced at his watch. “Four-thirty. Three and a half hours is long enough to sit in any producer’s chair. Be seeing you.” Joe continued to wait. At five o’clock Miss Robb put on her hat and opened the inner door. “Good night, Mr. Wylie. Mr. Carlin’s still waiting.” Wylie, disheveled and harassed, popped through the door. “Couldn’t get to you; tied up. Eating downtown?” Joe nodded. “I could.” Wylie popped back and closed the door. “That’s his way of telling you to wait,” Miss Robb smiled. It was seven o’clock before the door opened again to let genial Tony Vaux out. Vic Wylie cried in a temper: “When it comes to radio, I’m boss. Tell that to Munson. I don’t handle plopperoos.” A motion of the brief-case swept Joe toward the hall and the elevators. The two soon found themselves at the farthest table of a restaurant off Royal Street.