“He’s a fool to try it,” Wells declared in a low tone. “But if he’s bent on committing suicide just to prove his ’chute will work, that’s his lookout. Ours is to take pictures.”
The sound technician had finished setting up his equipment. Working with quiet efficiency, he stationed Bailey Brooks in front of the microphone, and took his own position at the mixing panel.
After the recording had been made, Joe led Flash over to the truck.
“Meet our sound expert,” he said carelessly. “George Doyle.”
The technician, a sullen, serious man of twenty-eight, did not bother to remove the monitor phones from his ears. He stared at Flash, mumbled a few words, and turned his back.
To cover up the rudeness, Joe said quickly:
“Why not quit the Ledger, Flash, and come in with a real outfit? If you’ll consider it I’ll ask News-Vue to give you a chance.”
“Thanks, Joe, but I like my work at the Ledger. I start my vacation tomorrow.”
“You’re fitted for newsreel work,” Joe declared persuasively. “You have steady nerves, good judgment, and you’re cool in an emergency. I know, because I’ve worked with you. Better think it over.”
Flash smiled and offered no response.