“On the nose,” John Dennis cried. “Right to the second.” The cast went to the mike, one by one, and spoke a few words. A voice came back: “Too close.” Joe looked at Archie Munn.
“The engineer,” Archie said. “Leveling sound for the platter.”
Then they were ready. The cast lined up for its circle of the mike. Dennis had his eyes on a watch; one hand was raised. The hand fell.
Nobody talked or whispered now. This was the real thing. Joe’s part came up; he read from his script and stepped away. The best producer in the city! The best producer wanted to talk to him. Abruptly there was silence. The show was made.
“Come along and hear it,” said Lucille Borden.
Joe followed the cast along a corridor to an engineer’s room gleaming with bakelite—transformers, switches, dials, knobs. Amby was there.
“I picked it up here, Joe,” the agent said gleefully. “You came in swell. You’re colossal.”
Joe grasped Amby’s arm. “Wylie wants to see me.”
Amby blinked. “Vic? Vic Wylie.” It dawned on him; he recovered and beamed. “Great guy, Vic; one of my best pals. I’ve been talking to him about you. Didn’t I tell you the sky was the limit?”
The engineer picked up the platter that had just been cut. “You ought to sell this show,” he said to John Dennis and set the platter on a turn-table. A needle came down upon it gently. Words, uncanny words, pleading and imploring, filled the room: