Roger moved aside the recorder which had rested on the outer edge of the disk, just past the polished edge of the wax.
“Here!” he cried out in surprise, “this isn’t right. There is a sound-track cut!”
“There can’t be!”
“Well, look, Grover.”
The older cousin stared at the abraded surface, the cuts in the surface of the composition.
“But that is impossible,” he stared, unbelievingly.
“Let’s give it a playback,” urged Roger. He hurried to give the surface a good brushing with a soft brush, exchanged the diamond-pointed recorder for the type that hooked up with the electrical amplifiers and speaker in the screening room.
He adjusted the mechanism to run a minute before lowering the pickup onto the disk, to give him and his cousin and Tip time to get into their tiny theatre.
The low rasp of the needle as it ran over ungrooved parts was all they heard, for several breaths.
Then: