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 cann'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.