And now, for the first time since entering the FKIP Building, the insistent blast of radio was gone. He stood in a soundless, glass-walled visitors’ gallery that had broadcasting studios on either side. He knew this gallery as he knew the hallway of his own home. Studio A, first on the right, high-ceilinged and vast, for symphony concerts; Studio B, on the left, for the song-birds of the air. Studio C.... Blue lights in a square frame said: STUDIO C—REHEARSAL.
He could look into Studio C, through the glass wall, upon a producer and a cast. Not a sound came out to him. The producer, slouched in a chair with his chin on his chest, leaped to his feet. His red hair was wild; his eyes were wilder. He seemed to be playing out a whole scene, and the cast, pencils out, furiously marked script. The rehearsal began again, and the producer, back in his chair, held his head and rocked to and fro. Then the cast must have hit what was wanted. There were smiles, good humor, and a producer who no longer looked wild.
“I wonder,” Joe asked himself hungrily, “if I’ll ever be doing that?”
Without warning another blue light burned in another frame. STUDIO G—ON THE AIR.
Curtains had been drawn and Studio G was blacked out. Joe’s heart hammered. People were dropping their tasks and tuning in. North, south, west—Boston, Washington, Pittsburgh. Perhaps lonely ships at sea to the east on the lonely Atlantic. Six feet beyond the drawn curtains lay mystery, the alluring secrecy of the unknown. Radio!
The blue light burned steadily: STUDIO G—ON THE AIR.
“I’d give my right arm,” Joe said hoarsely. There might not be so many people in the reception-room now....
The corridor speaker gave out a woman’s voice, hard, clipped, metallic. Joe, recognizing the voice, knew that the Years of Danger show was coming out of Studio G, with Lucille Borden in the lead. Lucille Borden always played tough-girl parts. He’d heard her in lots of shows. She must be another big money-maker, like Sonny.
The reception-room was almost empty, and excitement stirred him. He leaned across the reception desk. “I’d like to know—I mean, can you tell me—”
“You write a letter to the Director of Auditions,” said the blonde girl.