The organ music swelled once more to a crescendo; the sound of the baying dogs grew more vicious.
The older officer, a colonel, glanced at his companion, a first lieutenant. The younger man, his eyes betraying his concern, was staring at the group of nonchalant actors inside the lighted studio.
The colonel winced.
«Interesting, isn’t it?» he said.
«What?… Oh, yes, sir. Yes, sir; very interesting. Which one is he?»
«The tall fellow over in the corner. The one reading a newspaper.»
«Does he play Tyne?»
«Who? Oh, no, lieutenant. He has a small role, I think. In a Spanish dialect.»
«A small role … in a Spanish dialect.» The lieutenant repeated the colonel’s words, his voice hesitant, his look bewildered. «Forgive me, sir, I’m confused. I’m not sure what we’re doing here; what he’s doing here. I thought he was a construction engineer.»
«He is.»
The organ music subsided to a pianissimo; the sound of the howling dogs faded away. Now another voice—this one lighter, friendlier, with no undercurrent of impending drama—came out of the two webbed boxes.
Pilgrim. The soap with the scent of flowers in May; the Mayflower soap. Pilgrim brings you once again … «The Adventures of Jonathan Tyne.»
The thick corked door of the dark cubicle opened and a balding man, erect, dressed in a conservative business suit, entered. He carried a manila envelope in his left hand; he reached over and extended his right hand to the colonel. He spoke quietly, but not in a whisper. «Hello, Ed. Nice to see you again. I don’t have to tell you your call was a surprise.»
«I guess it was. How are you, Jack?… Lieutenant, meet Mr. John Ryan; formerly Major John N. M. I. Ryan of Six Corps.»
The officer rose to his feet.
«Sit down, lieutenant,» said Ryan, shaking the young man’s hand.
«Nice to meet you, sir. Thank you, sir.»
Ryan edged his way around the rows of black leather armchairs and sat down next to the colonel in front of the glass partition. The organ music once more swelled, matching the reintroduced sounds of the howling dogs. Several actors and actresses crowded around two microphones, all watching a man behind a panel in another glass booth—this one lighted—on the other side of the studio.
«How’s Jane?» asked Ryan. «And the children?»
«She hates Washington; so does the boy. They’d rather be back in Oahu. Cynthia loves it, though. She’s eighteen, now; all those D.C. dances.»
A hand signal was given by the man in the lighted booth across the way. The actors began their dialogue.
Ryan continued. «How about you? ‘Washington’ looks good on the roster sheet.»
«I suppose it does, but nobody knows I’m there. That won’t help me.»
«Oh?»
«G-2.»
«You look as though you are thriving, Jack.»
«Yes, I gathered that.»
Ryan smiled a little awkwardly. «No sweat. Ten other guys in the agency could do what I’m doing … better. But they don’t have the Point on their résumés. I’m an agency symbol, strong-integrity version. The clients sort of fall in for muster.»
The colonel laughed. «Horseshit. You were always good with the beady-bags. Even the high brass used to turn the congressmen over to you.»
«You flatter me. At least I think you’re flattering me.»
«Eeaagh!» The obese actress, still chewing her gum, had screeched into the second microphone. She backed away, goosing a thin, effeminate-looking actor who was about to speak.
«There’s a lot of screaming, isn’t there.» The colonel wasn’t really asking a question.
«And dogs barking and off-key organ music and a hell of a lot of groaning and heavy breathing. ‘Tyne’s’ the most popular program we have.»
«I admit I’ve listened to it. The whole family has; since we’ve been back.»
«You wouldn’t believe it if I told you who writes most of the scripts.»
«What do you mean?»
«A Pulitzer poet. Under another name, of course.»
«That seems strange.»
«Not at all. Survival. We pay. Poetry doesn’t.»
«Is that why he’s on?» The colonel gestured with a nod of his head toward the tall, dark-haired man who had put down the newspaper but still remained in the corner of the studio, away from the other actors, leaning against the white corked wall.
«Beats the hell out of me. I mean, I didn’t know who he was—that is, I knew who he was, but I didn’t know anything about him—until you called.» Ryan handed the colonel the manila envelope. «Here’s a list of the shows and the agencies he’s worked for. I called around; implied that we were considering him for a running lead. The Hammerts use him a lot…»
«The who?»
«They’re packagers. They’ve got about fifteen programs; daytime serials and evening shows. They say he’s reliable; no sauce problems. He’s used exclusively for dialects, it seems. And language fluency when it’s called for.»
«German and Spanish.» It was a statement.
«That’s right…»
«Only it’s not Spanish, it’s Portuguese.»
«Who can tell the difference? You know who his parents are.» Another statement, only agreement anticipated.
«Richard and Margo Spaulding. Concert pianists, very big in England and the Continent. Current status: semi-retirement in Costa del Santiago, Portugal.»
«They’re American, though, aren’t they?»
«Very. Made sure their son was born here. Sent him to American settlement schools wherever they lived. Shipped him back here for his final two years in prep school and college.»
«How come Portugal, then?»
«Who knows? They had their first successes in Europe and decided to stay there. A fact I think we’re going to be grateful for. They only return here for tours; which aren’t very frequent anymore… Did you know that he’s a construction engineer?»
«No, I didn’t. That’s interesting.»
«Interesting? Just ‘interesting’?»
Ryan smiled; there was a trace of sadness in his eyes. «Well, during the last six years or so there hasn’t been a lot of building, has there? I mean, there’s no great call for engineers … outside of the CCC and the NRA.» He lifted his right hand and waved it laterally in front of him, encompassing the group of men and women inside the studio. «Do you know what’s in there? A trial lawyer whose clients—when he can get a few—can’t pay him; a Rolls-Royce executive who’s been laid off since thirty-eight; and a former state senator whose campaign a few years ago not only cost him his job but also a lot of potential employers. They think he’s a Red. Don’t fool yourself, Ed. You’ve got it good. The Depression isn’t over by a long shot. These people are the lucky ones. They found avocations they’ve turned into careers… As long as they last.»
«If I do my job, his career won’t last any longer than a month from now.»
«I figured it was something like that. The storm’s building, isn’t it? We’ll be in it pretty soon. And I’ll be back, too… Where do you want to use him?»
«Lisbon.»
David Spaulding pushed himself away from the white studio wall. He held up the pages of his script as he approached the microphone, preparing for his cue.