The large studio before him was not in use. More than a score of instruments, horns, bass viols, cellos, snare drums, basso drums and all the rest stood there, casting grotesque shadows in the half light.
Beyond this, through glass partitions, he could see a young man. Sitting before an elaborate array of lights, plugs and switches, this man put out a hand here, another there, regulating the controls, directing the current that carried messages of joy, hope, peace and good will to the vast invisible audiences out in the night. He was the station operator.
In the studio beyond, only half visible to Johnny, the men of a jazz orchestra performed on saxophones, trap drums and who can say what other instruments?
“And I am now part of it all!” Johnny thought to himself. “I—”
But now came a buzzing sound, a red light flashed.
“A call!” he exclaimed in an excited whisper. “My first night call.”
Placing his finger on a button, he pressed it twice. This told the operator in the glass cage to stand by, ready to give him the air.
“All right,” he spoke into the phone, then gripped a pencil.
His pencil flashed across the paper.
“Got you,” he said quietly. “Repeat.”