It was Christmas Eve in the studio. By eleven o’clock in the morning, Santa Claus had called on most of the huge population according to each one’s deserts.

Sumptuous¹ gifts from producers to stars, and from agents to producers arrived at offices and studio bungalows²: on every stage one heard of the roguish gifts of casts to directors or directors to casts; champagne³ had gone out from publicity⁴ office to the press. And tips of fifties, tens and fives from producers, directors and writers fell like manna upon the white collar class.

In this sort of transaction there were exceptions. Pat Hobby, for example, who knew the game from twenty years’ experience, had had the idea of getting rid of his secretary the day before. They were sending over a new one any minute — but she would scarcely expect a present the first day.

Waiting for her, he walked the corridor, glancing into open offices for signs of life. He stopped to chat with Joe Hopper from the scenario⁵ department.

‘Not like the old days,’ he mourned, ‘Then there was a bottle on every desk.’

‘There’re a few around.’

‘Not many.’ Pat sighed. ‘And afterwards we’d run a picture — made up out of cutting-room scraps⁶.’

‘I’ve heard. All the suppressed stuff,’ said Hopper.

Pat nodded, his eyes glistening⁷.

‘Oh, it was juicy. You darned near ripped your guts⁸ laughing —’

He broke off as the sight of a woman, pad in hand, entering his office down the hall recalled him to the sorry present.

‘Gooddorf has me working over the holiday,’ he complained bitterly.

‘I wouldn’t do it.’

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