They
_had_ an audience. An audience that would watch wrestling would watch
anything.

So the ad men took over the duties of the semi-writers who had
prepared the radio programs. Ad men offended nobody, even those with
denture breath. That could be cured and so could acne, B.O., straight
hair and seam squirrels.

_Hey!_ he though suddenly. _Watch where you're thinking, Doak Parker._

A government man, a Security Officer, he straightened in his seat as
the stewardess came along the aisle.

She smiled at him, "Everything all right, Mr. Parker?"

"Dandy," Doak said. "Great, fine! Why?"

She paused, disconcerted "I beg your pardon?"

"Why shouldn't everything be all right? Lateral-American, the skyway
to the stars, right?"

She smiled "Absolutely correct."

"_And_ Milwaukee," Doak added. "Do you only handle the earth runs?"

"Until next year," she said. "I'm new."

"I'm old," Doak said. "Is there anything to drink on board?"

"Water, Mr. Parker."

"I'm not _that_ old," he said.

She glanced at her watch. "We'll be in Milwaukee in six minutes. And
that's the beer town."

But he had no time for a glass of beer. The limousine took him to the
elevated station and the last car for Dubbinville was leaving in three
minutes.

It was a nine-minute trip. He'd picked up an hour, coming west, and
used but thirty-three minutes. It was still only seven o'clock when
the huge elevated car hissed to a stop in front of the Dubbinville
station.

There was a smell to the place, a smell of sun-warmed grass and fruit
blossoms, of lilacs and quiet rains. Doak stood on the platform,
surveying the winding main street leading up into the gentle hills.
People on porches and teenagers in front of the drugstore. A
reddish-brown setter padded past on some secret business of his own.

There was no whiz, no whir, no clank, no squeal, no grind. This was
Dubbinville, U.S.A.

The station agent was picking up a pair of film boxes, as Doak walked
over. He smiled at Doak. "Beautiful evening, isn't it?"

"It certainly is. Is there--a place to stay in town, a hotel?"

The station agent shook his head. "No hotel. But you could stay at
Mrs. Klein's. She takes in boarders." He pointed with a bony
forefinger. "That grey house with the blue shutters, right on the
curve there."

"Thank you," Doak said. "What's the population here?"

"Around eight hundred, last census, though we had a couple families
move in since then. Hasn't changed muc