It was in the summer of 1964 when I first heard the story of The Silent Audience. I was a youth of about seventeen, and the teller was an incredibly old man who sat on a rickety porch spitting tobacco juice at a rusty coffee can. Never once did I see him hit his target, but that didn’t seem to faze him one bit. It happened in the old mining town of Boulderville, sixteen miles east of Hogan’s Gap, west of Weaverton, tucked away in the Nye Alps. He tapped the shoulder of the nearest rugged gentleman. “Pardon me, sir,” said the Professor, pointing, “but who is that young lady over there?” “Alex?”