Suddenly it happened. She turned pale. Verne had come silently into the control room, beyond the window of glass. He did not see her. He put down an armload of records and removed his coat. He sat down in the swivel chair and pulled the microphone down to him. The other man bent down, resting his hand on Verne’s shoulder. He said something to him. Verne turned quickly, looking through the window at her. He gaped, his mouth open foolishly. Like some sea thing in a glass tank, suddenly surprised.
He started to get up from the chair but the other man pointed to the clock. Verne nodded. He picked up a sheaf of papers and undipped them, turning toward the control board again. The other man left the control room through a side door. A moment later he came into the waiting room.
“Hello,” he said to Barbara.
“Hello.”
“You’re waiting to see Verne?”
She nodded.
“All right.” He looked around. “Don’t you want to hear the program?”
“Hear it?”
“I can turn on the wall speaker for you.” He reached up to a box over the window and clicked a switch. The room filled suddenly with the sound of jazz music, a heavy beating Chicago orchestra.
“Thank you,” Barbara murmured. The man went on outside, down the path away from the building.
Verne was talking. “Men like Bix Beiderbecke represented a tradition in jazz in which for the first time—”
She listened. His voice was low and harsh. He was very nervous, she realized. He was sitting with his back to her, facing the control board. On and on his voice droned. After a while he put on a record and the sound of his voice was replaced by Paul Whiteman’s band. He got up from the board and came over toward the window.
Again he gaped at her, his hands stuffed into his pockets. His expression was impossible to read. His face moved, his eyebrows twitching, the corners of his mouth going up and down. Barbara went over close to the window. They were only a few inches apart.
Suddenly Verne turned and ran back to the board. He snatched up his papers and sat down, adjusting the long rod of the microphone.
“—Beiderbecke’s contribution to the field of Chicago jazz is unfortunately rated too low because of his early and tragic—”
She went back to the chair and sat down. A group of people opened the street door and came in. They stared curiously through the window at the men talking. One of them, a girl about fourteen, began to giggle. She pounded a young boy with her on the arm. Their parents led them on out of the waiting room down the hall and around the corner. Barbara sat back in the chair and tried to relax.
At nine-thirty the door opened and a woman came quickly into the waiting room. She stopped, breathing hard, her slim body quivering. She gazed around her, eyes bright, her chest rising and falling, breathing almost like some kind of animal. She was tall and angular, with jet black hair falling down her shoulders in two heavy braids which widened at the ends into plump tufts. She shot a rapid, keen glance at Barbara and then padded over to the great window. With something small she tapped against the glass. It gave off a tiny clicking sound; probably a coin.
Verne looked up, startled. He and the woman stood gazing at each other, the woman breathless and flushed, Verne expressionless and grim-faced. He nodded curtly to her and then returned to the board. The woman continued to watch him for a few minutes. Then she moved away from the window. She walked across the waiting room and sat down in a chair a little way from Barbara.
Barbara studied her out of the corner of her eye. What kind of person was this slender, oddly-dressed girl? Was she waiting for Verne? Would she leave soon? The woman did not appear to be going. She opened a small purse and took out a cigarette. What strange shoes she had on— they were woolly, furlike. Her legs were bare; she had no stockings on. Barbara began to wish she would go. The brightness of the woman’s clothes disturbed her; she could not seem to ignore her, no matter how she sat. She picked up a magazine and turned the pages, but it did not help.
The woman was looking at her, now. Watching her silently, her shining black eyes fastened on her.
She leaned forward. “Say, darling. Do you have a match?”
Barbara’s head jerked up. She shook her head dumbly and returned to the magazine. Her cheeks were turning scarlet; she could feel the blood rushing up. The woman was still looking at her. Why didn’t she stop? How long was she going to sit, leaning toward her like that?
The woman got to her feet. She walked around the waiting room. After a while she wandered off down the corridor. Barbara heard her talking to someone. Presently she came back, skipping from side to side carelessly, her arms folded. She was humming under her breath, repeating one syllable over and over:
“La-la-la, lalalala, la. La-la-la—”
She spun around, one hand on her hip, her skirt sweeping out. Her cigarette jutted from her thin mouth, still unlit. How tough and cold she seemed. Except for her eyes. They were bright and hot, too bright. At last she sat down again. Her long fingers drummed on the arm of the chair, tapping in time with the music that came from the wall speaker. She was so much in motion. Agitated. Was she nervous? Or just restless?
Barbara made herself as small as she could in the chair and tried to concentrate on the magazine.
Time passed. She glanced up at the clock on the control room wall. It was almost ten. Did the program end at ten? Verne had not looked at either of them since he had first seen this girl. He knew her; that was certain. But how well did he know her? She was waiting for him. That was obvious. She was not going to go away.
At five minutes of ten the other announcer came back through the waiting room.
“Hello, Teddy,” he said to the girl. Teddy— Was that her name? Has she heard Verne mention her? She could not remember; there was so much of the trip she did not remember. The girl seemed at home here in the station. She knew the announcer and he knew her. Did that mean she worked here? The announcer appeared in the control room, behind the glass. He put hand on Verne’s arm, leaning over him to see the script. The last record from Verne’s stack was coming to an end.
“Well, that ties up another Potluck Party for tonight,” Verne’s voice came. “We’ll be back again next week with more of the same. And remember: there’s a fine combo playing right now at the Tied-Down Club. If you want to hear some first-rate creative experiments in the—”
He finished, and the theme came on, some progressive piece she did not know. The other announcer sat down at the board. Verne gathered up his records and papers into a stack again. He put on his coat slowly, pausing at the control room door.
Then very carefully he put down the records and got his pipe out of his coat pocket. He filled it with tobacco from a leather pouch. His hands were shaking. She could see them shaking through the glass. He snapped on a lighter and lit his pipe. Then he returned the lighter to his pocket and picked up his load. He disappeared from the control room.
The girl Teddy got to her feet. Barbara’s heart began to thump again. She was frightened. She put down the magazine and stood up, too. Her heart was beating so loudly that she could not get her breath. Teddy glanced at her and smiled, a thin little smile.
The door opened. Verne came slowly into the waiting room. He stopped and stood looking at the two of them.
“Hello,” he said.
“That was a gorgeous program, ducky,” Teddy said. “I loved it.”
Verne looked at her and then at Barbara. She smiled uncertainly. Verne sucked slowly on his pipe, his face expressionless. After a while he removed his pipe.