The Troubled Air Read Online Free Page B

incidental music steals it all from Tschaikovsky. Where do they think Tschaikovsky comes from—Dallas, Texas?”
    “We want someone else to start doing the music for next week’s show,” O’Neill said stubbornly.
    “What else?” Archer asked. He would argue about Pokorny later, he decided, when he heard the whole story.
    O’Neill stared at him for a moment. To Archer it seemed as though O’Neill were begging for something with his eyes; and again Archer thought of the baffled bulldog.
    “We want to drop certain actors,” O’Neill said. “For the time being.” He waited for Archer to say something. But Archer remained silent. “Stanley Atlas …”
    “Now, Emmet,” Archer began.
    “Alice Weller,” O’Neill went on quickly. “Frances Motherwell.” He stopped and took a breath. Then, in a low voice, he said, “Vic Herres.”
    He took a long gulp of his whiskey.
    “You’re kidding,” Archer said. “Now tell me the joke.”
    “It’s not a joke, Clement,” O’Neill said, his voice troubled. “We’re dead serious.”
    “First of all,” Archer said, speaking slowly and with exaggerated reasonableness, “my arrangement with the agency is that I’m in complete control of hiring and firing. Right?”
    “It has been, Clement,” O’Neill said. “Up to now.”
    “You mean that’s changed,” Archer said. “As of today.”
    “Not really,” said O’Neill. “Only in the case of these five people.”
    “Also,” Archer looked squarely at O’Neill, who was opening and closing his mouth in a nervous half-yawn, “whoever made up that list happened, by luck, to include the most valuable people on the program.”
    “That’s a matter of opinion,” O’Neill said. “Maybe you’re a little too close to them and your judgment’s been influenced. Vic Herres is your best friend. And the truth is you’ve been carrying Alice Weller for a long time.” He stopped uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Clem,” he said.
    “All right,” Archer said. “Let’s leave Herres and Weller out of it for a moment, although you could ask anybody around radio for a list of the five best actors in the business and Herres would be named every time. As for Alice Weller,” Archer went on, evenly, “she’s no Duse, but she’s a good solid type and she does a decent, dependable job every time out. And you’ll never get anyone one-tenth as funny as Stanley Atlas, and you know it. A funny man, a really funny man like Atlas is a rare thing, Emmet, and I treasure him. I don’t like him, but he makes me laugh. And he makes everybody else laugh. A good proportion of the people who listen to your show turn on their radios to hear Stanley Atlas and taking him off is deliberate sabotage and I want to know who wants to sabotage the program and why you’re willing to let it happen.”
    O’Neill opened his mouth as though he wanted to say something. Then he closed it again and uneasily slid his hand along the table.
    “Now we consider the case of Frances Motherwell,” Archer went on, professorially. “As they say at the cocktail parties, Frances Motherwell is one of the most exciting young talents in the country.” He waited for O’Neill to oppose him, but O’Neill still didn’t say anything. “In two or three years she’s going to be one of the biggest stars in the country and you’ve told me that yourself, haven’t you?”
    “Yes,” O’Neill said miserably. “I did.”
    “And yet you want me to fire her?”
    “Yes,” O’Neill said. It was almost a whisper now.
    “You insist,” Archer went on, methodically, like a lawyer delivering a charge, “that I fire all five of the people.”
    “We insist,” O’Neill said.
    “In that case, Emmet,” Archer said pleasantly, “I fire myself too. See you in a bar somewhere.” He started to get up.
    “Clem!”
    Archer stopped.
    “Sit down, please.”
    Archer hesitated.
    “Sit down, sit down,” O’Neill said impatiently.
    Archer dropped slowly back into his