In the room next door, the engineer held up one finger-one minute till airtime. Jake waved back at the glass square set into the wall between the rooms to show he’d got the message. He always acknowledged the competence of people like engineers. They did their jobs so he could do his. He took one last look around. There wasn’t much to see. Except for that glass square, the walls and ceiling of the studio were covered in what looked like cardboard egg cartons that helped deaden unwanted noise and echoes.

The engineer pointed to him. The red light above the square of glass came on. He leaned toward the microphone. “I’m Jake Featherston,” he said, “and I’m here to tell you the truth.” His voice was a harsh rasp. It wasn’t the usual broadcaster’s voice, any more than his rawboned, craggy face was conventionally handsome. But it grabbed attention and it held attention, and who could ask for more than that? Nobody, not in the wireless business.

“Truth is, I’m still here,” he went on after his trademark greeting. “The Yankees dropped bombs on the Gray House, but I’m still here. They threw away God only knows how many airplanes, but I’m still here. They wasted God only knows how much money, but I’m still here. They murdered God only knows how many innocent women and children, but I’m still here. They’ve thrown God only knows how many soldiers at Richmond, but I’m still here-and they’re not. They’ve had God only knows how many fine young men, who could’ve gone on and done other things, shot and gassed and blown to pieces, but I’m still here. They’ve had God only knows how many barrels smashed to scrap metal, but I’m still here. They’ve given guns to our niggers and taught ’em to rise up against the white man, but I’m still here. And let them try whatever else they want to try. I’ve taken it all, and I’ll take some more, on account of I’m-still-here.”

The red light went out. Behind the glass, the engineer applauded. Jake grinned at him. He didn’t think he’d ever seen that before. He raised his hands over his head, fingers interlaced, like a victorious prizefighter. The engineer applauded harder.