“Well,” he asked, “what do you think? Do we have something here, or do we have something?”

“I liked the Balinese broad,” said Beefy. “She had something, all right.”

“She’s right here. We flew her in from Ft. Worth, where she was working. Also a few members of the Minnesota team. I was planning to introduce you gentlemen to them all at a little cocktail party this evening.”

Oxnard, walking across the studio toward them, could see that they were impressed with Finger’s foresight and generosity.

All except Flinty. “That’s well and good,” he said, steepling his bony fingers as he sat back in his chair. He cocked an eye at Finger, standing poised before him. “But we haven’t come to Titanic for technical products; your business, Bernie, is show business. What have you got that will get Titanic to the top of the ratings?”

Finger’s teeth clicked shut. It was the only sign of distress he showed. Immediately they parted again in a cheery smile.

“Listen,” he said, “shows are a dime a dozen. We’re planning a whole raft of ’em… every kind of show, from quizzes to really deep drama—Simon and Allen, stuff like that. It’s the technical side that we wanted to show you today.”

Oxnard stopped a few feet behind their chairs. He could see the sort of desperate look on Finger’s face. Beefy and the other two bankers seemed anxious to move on to the cocktail party. Montpelier and Brenda both had disappeared. Glancing over his shoulder, Oxnard saw that the engineers and technicians had cleared out, too. There was no one in the studio except Finger, the four bankers and himself.

The studio looked like a gaunt framework: big, mostly empty, skeletal girders showing where other rooms have walls and ceiling panels. It reminded Oxnard of an astronomical observatory, although it wasn’t doomed. An unfinished chamber, he thought. Full of sound and fury; signifying nothing. He felt a little surprised at his sudden burst of literary pretension.