Joe was back at the mike. “A twenty-two-year-old boy has inherited a factory. But he finds the factory closed as the result of a trade war. A friendly old lawyer advises him to sell it for what he can get. The boy speaks:
“‘I inherited a property worth $35,000. Can I get $35,000 for it? No. Why? Because one man says I can’t have its value. One man says he’ll leave me penniless if I try to create its value. A dollar isn’t worth a dollar up here; it’s only worth what Jake Grimmer says it’s worth. I can’t swallow anything like that. Maybe I’m a fool for not accepting $7,000 for the plant and letting them short-change me out of $28,000—$7,000 would be better than nothing. But if I took that $7,000, for the rest of my life I’d be licked. A shadow would be walking at my side day and night and talking to me. What about Eastport? Why had I let them kick me out and refuse me what was mine? Don’t you see, Mr. Graves? I wouldn’t be selling the factory for $7,000. I’d be selling my self-respect.’”
In the control-room John Dennis said: “There you are, Amby. That was much better: he wasn’t shooting at rôles out of his reach. A good voice when he doesn’t strain it.”
Ambrose Carver’s interest quickened. “Think he has something, John?”
“I have a show in mind. I may be able to use him.”
Mr. Carver became avid. “Is his letter here? What’s he ever done? Let me get a line on him.” He read Joe’s letter rapidly.
The program director touched the button. “Thank you, Mr. Carlin.” That was all.
The girl came out of the little room of fate and led Joe to the door. A middle-aged man now sat on the wooden bench. The girl said: “Mr. Westfall? This way please.” The door of Studio K closed.
Joe Carlin laid the three books on the wooden bench and mopped his face. He was tired and weary, discouraged and whipped. You read a rôle, and eyes glared at you from the control-room, and you didn’t have the slightest idea whether you were good, bad or indifferent. Nobody bothered to tell you. “Thank you, Mr. Carlin.” They might just as well tell you to get out and let it go at that. Get out and let the next victim come in. Didn’t they have any heart in radio? Didn’t they know what an audition meant—the worry, the nervous, sick all-goneness, the strain? Didn’t radio care?
The door of Studio K opened with a hasty rattle of the knob. “Mr. Carlin.”