t was one of Sam Winters's good days. The rushes on the Tessie Brand picture were wonderful. Part of the reason, of course, was that Tessie was breaking her neck to vindicate her behavior. But whatever the reason, Barbara Carter was going to emerge as the hottest new producer of the year. It was going to be a terrific year for costume designers.

The television shows produced by Pan-Pacific were doing well, and "My Man Friday" was the biggest of them all. The network was talking to Sam about a new five-year contract for the series.

Sam was preparing to leave for lunch when Lucille hurried in and said, "They just caught someone setting a fire in the prop department. They're bringing him over here now."

The man sat in a chair facing Sam in silence, two studio guards standing behind him. His eyes were bright with malice. Sam had still not gotten over his shock. "Why?" he asked. "For God's sake - why?"

"Because I didn't want your fucking charity," Dallas Burke said. "I hate you and this studio and the whole rotten business. I built this business, you son of a bitch. I paid for half the studios in this lousy town. Everybody got rich off me. Why didn't you give me a picture to direct instead of trying to pay me off by pretending to buy a bunch of fucking stolen fairy tales? You would have bought the phone book from me, Sam. I didn't want any favors from you - I wanted a job. You're making me die a failure, you prick, and I'll never forgive you for that."

Long after they had taken Dallas Burke away, Sam sat there thinking about him, remembering the great things Dallas had done, the wonderful movies he had made. In any other business, he would have been a hero, the chairman of the board or would have been retired with a nice, fat pension and glory.

But this was the wonderful world of show business.