rook of his arm.

He was used to it now; the applause, the audiences, the pictures, the
autographs, the fuss. Everywhere the response was the same. They had
either seen him in the movies or on television or in the nightclubs,
where he first broke in his act. Now they wanted to establish an
identity with him, to touch the merchandise, to stand close so that they
could write home about the visiting celebrity. Crawford was a realist.
It was all part of being a name.

It had taken him just five years to make the big time. Five years of
road shows, coast-to-coast tours, one-night stands and a dummy named
Spud to make him the hottest ventriloquist in the business. His act was
tight, well-paced and popular. He had a weekly radio show, a television
program and a seven-year contract with a major Hollywood studio. He was
riding high.

Still he hadn't forgotten the soldiers. Two months each year he took
time off to travel the USO circuit. His agent tore his hair, reminding
him of the financial losses, but the USO had given him his first break
so he had always answered their call. He liked enthusiastic audiences
and the cheering of laugh-hungry men made him happy. Entertainment was
his business and he enjoyed exhibiting his talent. The wider the
audience the better he liked it.

His dressing room was located back of the auditorium. He closed the door
behind him, put Spud on a chair and began getting out of his rehearsal
clothes. He lit a cigarette and looked at himself in the mirror. He was
tired and needed a shave. In the last week the pace had been fast. The
USO tour still had a few days to run, but he was looking forward to its
end. A vacation, the luxury of relaxation would all be his then.

He opened a drawer of the dressing table and pulled out a bottle of
Scotch. There were two hours to be killed before the show. He drank a
shot and thought about it. A shower, a shave, a good dinner and a walk
around the base would consume the time. After the show he would drive
back to town and check in at a hotel for a good night's sleep.

He was putting the bottle back in the drawer when a knock sounded on the
door. He said "Come in," thinking it was one of the cast and didn't turn
around. He heard the door open, glanced into the mirror and glimpsed
Colonel Meadows, the Commanding Officer of Harlow Field, and a man in
civilian clothes he didn't recognize. He turned around, reached for a
bathrobe.

"Don't mind us, Robbie," said the