Amby Carver and the tall, pale youth Joe had seen talking to Archie Munn outside the FKIP building were in the studio. “Vic around yet?” Amby asked briskly. “No.” Bert Farr was short. Little Amby Carver had steered a client into a sponsored show; little Amby was beginning to count himself a somebody in show business. The rebuff left him unruffled. He saw Joe and instantly the cane waggled with pointed carelessness. “Hello, Joe. Throat better? Too bad you weren’t around yesterday; I might have been able to throw something your way. Why not drop in some morning? I can’t promise to do anything for you, but there may be a part.” Joe’s neck burned. Amby’s front of superiority and condescension was something he couldn’t take. He asked flatly: “Are you still in the same rat-hole?” Bert Farr chuckled. Amby flushed. His hand touched the tracing of mustache. “Sour, Joe?” he asked softly. “Does that get you anything? Sonny, this is Joe Carlin.” “Who?” Sonny asked languidly. “Carlin? You remember. Joe Carlin.” “Oh!” Sonny held out a hand that was limp and moist. “Didn’t they try you out in my part?” My part! “No,” said Joe. “I played it.” He didn’t like this Sonny Baker. “Really?” Sonny’s drawl was insolent. “Sonny!” Amby chided in sly malice. “Is that nice? I ask you. Must you forget Joe’s only a high-school amateur?” Joe remembered the day he had found Amby out and had scorned him, and how Wylie had said: “Kid, he’ll never forgive you.” But he was too young, too raw and inexperienced, to cope with this acid baiting. A light switched on in the control-room. The hollow eyes of Vic Wylie stared out at them. “This is a rehearsal,” the producer snapped through the two-way mike. “Those not connected with the show will leave the studio.” Joe walked toward the door. “Not you, kid.” Fire ran through Joe. If he was still connected with the show ... Sonny Baker, languidly amused, was watching him. “Look here, Wylie,” dapper Ambrose Carver cried angrily, “if you think—” The light in the control-room snapped off. Vic Wylie came out to the studio, hollow-eyed and tired. “Where’s your spot in this show. Carver?” “I’m Sonny’s agent.” “That doesn’t mean a thing to me. I’m not dealing with agents on this show.” “You’ll deal with me,” Amby sputtered. “Out of the way.” Wylie moved the microphone. It didn’t need moving, but moving it gave him the opportunity to brush the agent aside. Amby was pushed back on his heels. “You can’t do this to me. You can’t hound Sonny. He’s an artist. He’s too big to be told he’s a Vic Wylie rubber stamp. He’s no high-school—” Wylie swung about with a snarl. “Get out.” The impact of the two words jolted the little agent as though they were blows. The scrap of ridiculous mustache quivered. “Now, now, Vic—” “Get out. If I have to tell you again, you’ll take your star out with you.” Amby Carver cleared his throat. Whatever he meant to say died under the producer’s glare.