Radio lay in its cocoon of summer coma. Most of the chain serials and most of the local dramatic programs were off the air until September, and no new shows, chain or local, stepped into the vacated spots. The blight hit actors, singers, and musicians. It also hit auditions: FKIP, FFOM and FWWO would not hear eager, aspiring talent again until the fall. Heat baked the city, and a torpid world of radio counted the weeks until September. For Joe Carlin, life had changed: the dusty McCoy Building and the stage-effect microphone in Ambrose Carver’s office became something that had happened in the past. His days were now spent in Vic Wylie’s office. If Wylie, in the agony of putting together six shows for the fall, could give him only half an hour, that half-hour became something to look back upon. If the disheveled, wild-haired producer could give him no time at all, there was always the possibility of a half-hour to-morrow. And even if he caught only fleeting glimpses of Wylie for two or three days at a stretch, every moment of those days he was living and breathing the atmosphere of real, exciting show business. Radio people were at liberty, and “at liberty” meant, bluntly, out of work. Suddenly Vic Wylie’s office became a gathering place for idle actors and actresses, a sort of unofficial club. Some passed into the inner office to audition for parts in the six shows coming up; others, slanting constant glances toward the closed door, lounged in the outer office and chatted with a gay light-heartedness that seemed to Joe to fill the place with magic. The entrancing gossip of show business was all about him. “I understand FKIP’s auditioned the _I Want Work_ platter a dozen times and can’t hook a sponsor.” “I don’t put much faith in novelty shows. They’re too big a gamble.” “What isn’t a gamble in radio?” “Who ever dreamed the quiz shows would get four stars?” “Anybody hear that He, Inc., may put on a show?” He, Inc., were outfitters for men and boys. “I heard that, too. Yesterday, at FFOM.” There was quick interest in the room. “Who’s got it?” “Probably the Everts-Hall Agency. They’ve always had the He account.” A woman powdered her nose. “That means Tony Vaux will be the producer. Good old Tony! He used me twice last season. I might drop in on Tony and give him my best smile.” A man said: “No chance, child. This show will go stag.” “Stag” meant an all-male cast.