Waiting for the elevator, unconsciously listening to an FKIP loudspeaker, Joe felt that the future held a grim, mirthless humor. If he went on the _Mr. America_ program, he’d still be in radio. He’d still be on a five-a-week. Both shows would come out of the same station, fifteen minutes apart. But the _Sue Davis_ sponsored show had been paying him twenty-five dollars a week, while the unsponsored _Mr. America_ would pay him only in experience. Show business! John Dennis’ secretary came running along the corridor. “Mr. Carlin! I wasn’t sure I could catch you. Mr. Wylie’s office called. You’re wanted over there.” Vic Wylie had sent for him at last! “Will you phone back and tell them I’ll be there within an hour?” He’d been waiting for more than a week. Let Vic wait an hour. He ate a sandwich at Munson’s, killed time, and finally walked into Vic Wylie Productions. “I expect Mr. Wylie back in a few minutes,” Miss Robb said. So he hadn’t kept Wylie waiting. The inner room still held memories. Memories softened him. Why wrap himself in cold aloofness and let Vic see he was sore? Vic would tell him to come back to the cast for the Monday show and he’d go on from there, forgetting how tough the last week had been, giving everything he had. Wylie arrived without the usual accompaniment of fury and bustle. He closed the door and placed the brief-case upon the desk with what, for him, might pass for gentleness. He went around to his chair and, for a moment, seemed to give himself up to contemplation of some thought far away. He was gaunt and disheveled, apparently a little more tired than usual. He hadn’t shaved. “Kid,” he said heavily, “I’m not up to the light touch. I can’t spar around with this. I’ve got to give it to you fast and quick. You’re out.” The blood drained out of Joe. Never again to play Dick Davis.... He found his voice. “I’m out for good?” “That’s the ticket.” “Why?” This was some sort of wild dream or some mad joke. Only—Vic didn’t joke about things like this. “You heard yesterday’s show? Yesterday wrote the answer. I like you—” Joe’s lips moved. “You can skip that.” “All right; you shouldn’t have to be told. I’ve been holding off. Amby Carver’s been telling things to Munson, Munson’s been riding Everts-Hall, Everts-Hall’s been putting pressure on me. I got it three ways; some of it was downstage, some from the prompter’s book, and some from the wings. I didn’t want Sonny unless he became a must. If he starts out again to put himself up in lights, he can ruin the show. If he gets under my skin and I blow my top, I ruin the show. I told you once I don’t run a friendship club. I might have an idea that cutting your throat would be tops as a way to enjoy an afternoon, but if you give me a show, I’ll toss the knife out the window. Yesterday Sonny gave me a show. He’s a must.” “He had a script.” “A stage has scenery, but it’s only an empty stage until the scenery’s set.”