Sure, he was all right. He was swell. Curt Lake could have script-writing—he wanted no part of such a headache. Why couldn’t he find the words? It shouldn’t be so hard to express a thought. Just about two sentences. Inspiration came to him from whatever void it is that gives birth to inspiration. He went back to the typewriter. Thursday night he finished the script in an exultation of authorship. Nine pages—that’s how long a Curt Lake script ran for a fifteen-minute show. Now he had to have a signature that would mark the start of every program, and he had to have an opening plug and a closing plug. A rough idea for a distinctive signature came Friday morning. He put it down: Voice: I am ink, and paper, and the thoughts of men. Sound—Faint rumble of printing press Voice: I am the printed word. Sound (full mike)—Rumble of printing press Voice: I am BOOKS. Sound—Press rumble fades to— Announcer: Thomas Carlin presents to-day’s book— Absorbed, he worked on the plugs. He came to the close: Life breathes in the printed word. Read books and live with life. He told himself that he had something. In imagination he heard an announcer’s voice speaking the lines into a mike. Boy, those lines were good. He had something there. The fascination of creation warmed him. This was show business; this was radio. But it was also something else he did not suspect. It was _Thomas Carlin Presents_. He read over what he had written. He read it over a second time and a frown pinched his forehead. The plugs didn’t seem to have all the zip he had thought was there. The feeling grew on him that he hadn’t quite caught the boat. Probably, with a little tinkering here and there.... He put the script in a small upper drawer of his desk where he kept razor blades, cuff links, tie clasps, odds and ends. He wouldn’t hand his father this show until he had licked it into shape. It had to be right. If the plugs proved too much for him, if he couldn’t make them right, he’d take them to Vic. Instantly his thoughts were back with the _Sue Davis_ show. This was Friday, about time for Vic to give the word. On the chance that he might catch the producer he called his office. “He’s not here, Joe,” Miss Robb said. “Tell him my voice is all right, will you?” “Why—yes. I’ll tell him, Joe.” Joe thought: “The call ought to come to-morrow.” There was no call the next day. And the telephone bell was silent all through the long, dragging hours of Sunday.