Andy did not see the newspapers the next day. Someone on his staff -- he suspected it was Ed Thornburg -- intercepted them and for this Andy was grateful. He finally fell asleep around six in the morning with the aid of a sleeping capsule, a crutch he rarely used, and didn't awaken until early afternoon. Memory flooded him the instant he opened his eyes and the sick feeling knotted his stomach. Outside his window bloomed a beautiful summer day. Presumably the same sun was shining upon little Drew also, and those who had kidnapped him. But where? It was still a very big world, despite all the modern cant to the contrary. Hub was sitting in a chair that blocked the hall door. He was dozing, perhaps the only sleep he'd gotten. He snapped to alertness at Andy's entrance. "Sorry, Mr. Paxton. Nothing new. Lot of people waiting to see you, though". "Reporters"? "Our own people. Questions about the show tonight". Hub picked up the telephone. "Shall I let them know you're awake"? "I suppose. How's Lissa, do you know"? Hub considered. "Some better. She's got plenty of guts, Mr. Paxton. You want me to call her"? "She expecting me to"? Hub shook his head so Andy told him not to bother. The only reason for contacting Lissa was to comfort or to be comforted. He could not manage the former or expect the latter; they had nothing to give to each other. The omission might look peculiar to outsiders, but Andy could not bring himself to go through the motions simply for the sake of appearances. He had little time to himself, anyway. As the afternoon sped toward evening, the suite saw a steady procession of Paxton aides pass in and out, each with his own special problem. Thornburg arrived with the writers. They had spent the morning revising the act, eliminating all the gay songs, patter and dancing with a view of the best public relations. What remained lacked the original verve but it was at least dignified, as befitting the tragic circumstances. Raymond Fox reported that the orchestra had hastily rehearsed "Cradle Song" in case it was needed. Charlie Marble was back and forth on several occasions, first to confer with Andy on the advisability of cancelling the Las Vegas engagement -- they decided it was wise -- and later to announce that a prominent comedian, also an agency client, had agreed to fill the casino's open date. And once Bake slipped in, pale and drawn, last night's liquor still on his breath with some of today's added to it. He asked if there was anything he could do. Andy invented a job to keep him busy, sending him ahead to El Dorado to supervise last minute arrangements. But from Rocco Vecchio, they heard nothing. At last it was time to depart. Hub, nosing about, spotted reporters in the lobby, so Andy was hustled away quietly through the hotel's service entrance in a strange car which Hub had procured somewhere. They succeeded in eluding the curious at the hotel, but there was no chance of avoiding them at the nightclub. El Dorado was surrounded by a mob. They overflowed the parking lot, making progress by automobile difficult. Long before he reached the protection of the stage door, Andy was recognized. Word of his arrival spread through the crowd like a brushfire. They surged around him, fingers pointing, eyes prying. It was not a hostile gathering but Andy sensed the difference from last night's hero-worshippers. They had come not to admire but to observe. "It's worse inside", Thornburg informed Andy. "Skolman's jammed in every table he could find. Under the heading of it's an ill wind, et cetera". Backstage was tomblike by contrast. Andy's co-workers kept their distance, awed by the tragedy. But in his dressing room was a large bouquet and a card that read, "We're with you all the way". It was signed by everyone in the troupe. Andy couldn't help but be touched. He instructed Shirl Winter to compose a note of thanks to be posted on the call board. Bake was waiting to report that Lou DuVol had been sobered up to the point where he could function efficiently. Andy gathered that this had been no small accomplishment. Bake himself looked better; any kind of job was better than brooding. Andy told him, "Bake, I wish you'd talk to Skolman, see if some kind of p. a. system can be rigged up outside. It's just barely possible with this crowd that the kidnapper wasn't able to get a table. I wouldn't want him to miss the message". "I'll try. Skolman isn't going to like it much, though, giving away what he should be selling". Skolman wasn't the only one who didn't care for Andy's scheme. A short time later, Lieutenant Bonner stomped into the dressing room. "I got a bone to pick with you, Mr. Paxton. It's those damn loudspeakers". Andy rolled up the revised script he had been studying. "What about them"? "They're going to louse me up good. My men have been here all afternoon, setting up for this thing". Bonner explained that, with the nightclub's cooperation, the police had occupied El Dorado like a battlefield. Motion picture cameras had been installed to film the audience, the reservation list was being checked out name by name, and a special detail was already at work in the parking lot scrutinizing automobiles for a possible lead. However, it was virtually impossible to screen the mob outside, even if Bonner had manpower available for the purpose. "I want you to have the speakers taken out". Andy sighed. "Seems like we're never going to see eye to eye, Lieutenant. Didn't they tell you what I wanted the p. a. system for"? "Sure, I know. But it's such a long shot" -- "No longer than yours. What do you expect to get tonight, anyway? You think somebody is going to stand up in the audience and make guilty faces? Or have a sign on his car that says, 'Here Comes the Paxton Kidnapper'"? Andy crumbled the script in his fist. "I can't stop you from doing what you think is right. But don't try to stop me, either". "Someday", Bonner said, "you're going to ask us for help. I can hardly wait". "What you don't understand is that I'm asking for it now". But Bonner departed, still full of ill will. He had gotten stuck with a job too big for his imagination; he had to cling to routine, tested procedures. To act otherwise would be to admit his helplessness. But, admit or not, Bonner was helpless. The crime showed too much planning, the kidnappers appeared too proficient to be caught by a checklist. Andy's performance was scheduled for eleven o'clock. He stalled for a half-hour longer, hoping to hear something from Vecchio about the ransom money. Bake and Shirl Winter, on separate telephones, could not reach him at any conceivable location in Los Angeles, nor could they secure any clear-cut information regarding his efforts. Bake cursed. "The sweaty bastard's probably halfway to Peru with our money by now". When no one smiled, he felt constrained to add, "Just kidding, natch". Thornburg popped in to advise, "Andy, Skolman's sending up smoke signals. You about ready"? "What's he complaining about"? Bake asked. "They're drinking, aren't they"? "No. We got a bunch of sippers out there tonight. I guess nobody wants to pass out and miss anything". Thornburg added in a lower voice but Andy overheard, "They act more like a jury than an audience". Andy said, "Well, I guess we can't wait any longer. Hub, you stick by the stage door. If Rock shows up during the number -- or you hear anything -- give me the signal". Shirl Winter said, "I'll stay on the phone, Mr. Paxton. There's a couple of call-backs I can work on". "You're a sweetheart -- but leave one line open. He may try to phone us". Andy passed into the corridor, their "good lucks"! Following him. It was what they said before every performance but tonight it sounded different, as if he really needed it. They were right. The act, cut to shreds and hastily patched together during the afternoon, had not been rehearsed sufficiently by anyone. The result had nothing of the polish, pace or cohesion of the previous night. Here's where luck would normally step in. But this was no ordinary show and Andy knew it. Whether he sang well or badly had nothing to do with it. The audience had come not to be entertained but to judge. Twenty-four hours had changed him from a performer to a freak. Within this framework, what followed was strained, even macabre. Eliminating the patter and the upbeat numbers left little but blues and other songs of equal melancholy. The effect was as depressing as a gravestone, the applause irresolute and short-lived. Yet Andy plowed ahead, mouthing the inconsequential words as if they possessed real meaning, and gradually his listeners warmed to him. Their clapping grew more fervent; the evening was still not beyond salvaging, not as a show but for him as a person. The worst was yet to come. As Andy reached the finale of his act, a subdued commotion backstage drew his attention to the wings. Rocco Vecchio -- a perspiring, haggard Vecchio -- was standing there, flanked by two men in the uniforms of armored transport guards. Vecchio was nodding and pointing at the large suitcase he held. Andy felt his heart thud heavily with relief. He waved at Fox to cut off the finale introduction. The music died away discordantly. He drew a deep breath. "Ladies and gentlemen, in place of my regular closing number tonight, I'd like to sing something of a different nature for you. Ray, if you please -- the 'Cradle Song'". He sensed rather than heard the gasp that swept across the audience. Nor could he blame them. This particular song at this particular time could only be interpreted as the ultimate in bad taste, callous exploitation beyond the bounds of decency. Having no choice, he plunged into it, anyway, holding onto the microphone for support. "Lullaby and goodnight." His voice shook. For the first time in his life he forgot the lyrics midway through and had to cover up by humming the rest. He wondered if the audience would let him finish. They did; though contemptuous, they were still polite. But when he was finally through, their scorn was made apparent. Someone clapped tentatively then quickly stopped. Otherwise, the silence was complete. As the lights came up, Andy could see that a number of patrons were already on their way toward the exit. He stumbled off-stage. "My God", he muttered. "My God". Hub was there to support him. "It's okay, Mr. Paxton. The money's here, all of it". At this moment, all he could think of was what he'd been forced to undergo. "Did you hear them? Do you know what they think of me"? "Bunch of damn jerks", Hub growled. "Who needs them"? Thornburg patted his arm. "Sure, Andy, it'll be all right. Nothing broken that can't be mended". The words were hollow. Thornburg knew, better than any of them, that a public image was as fragile as Humpty Dumpty. All the king's horses and all the king's men Vecchio shouldered in. "I got it, Andy. God knows how, but I got it. You'll never believe the places I've been today. I practically had to sign your life away, you'll probably fire me for some of the deals I had to go for, but" -- Andy nodded dully. "It doesn't matter, Rock. We've done our part". He clutched that knowledge to him as he returned to his dressing room. The usual congratulatory crowd was conspicuously absent; the place had the air of a morgue. Andy had no desire to linger himself but Hub reported that the mob outside was still large despite the efforts of the police to disperse them.