"Odds? Don't talk to me about odds, Frick!" The Producer winced as
man and brontosaurus came together on the screen. There was a closeup
of the man's face, and his expression wasn't pretty when he saw the
imitation beast. But of course, he couldn't know it was harmless--
"The letters!" the Producer groaned. "The complaints! I can see 'em
now--"
The office door opened. A pretty redhead with vacant eyes and a frozen
smile poked her head inside.
"What is it, Miss Stitch?"
"Will you take a call from Mr. Manford? Phonescreen Seven."
"You bet I will," the Producer said menacingly.
Frick lowered the fidelivision sound and flicked on P.S. 7 with a few
efficient motions. The face of Joe Manford, the Director of the night's
_Thrill Show_, was haggard, despite the jovial smile.
"Hi, T.D.," he said. "Been watching the show?"
"Yes, Joseph," the Producer said gravely.
"Oh." The smile faded, but only for a moment. "Well, nothing to worry
about. Our boys will have that fellow rounded up in a few minutes.
Can't imagine how that got fouled up. But that's the _Thrill Show_ for
you. Full of surprises."
"Is that a fact?" said the Producer. He picked up the butt of his
hookahmatic and sipped smoke calmly. "I presume this fellow was fully
authorized before you put him on?"
"Oh, yes," Manford said hastily. "He passed the routine FCC physical,
and had the usual adrenalin and hypnomecholyl dose. I mean, you saw the
girl didn't you? She was _fine_, wasn't she?" He beamed.
"Yes," said the Producer. "She certainly was fine." Frick stirred
uncomfortably behind him.
"Anyway," the Director continued, "we're dropping in the dinosaur
film--that's always good for a few shivers--and we've sent a crew into
the Studio to get that man out of there--"
The Producer nodded his head toward his assistant. "Frick," he said,
eyes on Manford. "You tell him."
Frick stepped into range. He cleared his throat and looked at the
floor. "There'll be a meeting after the show," he mumbled.
"Meeting?" Manford said. "What for?" He blinked, and looked at Frick's
bowed head. Then he looked dazed. "You don't mean a--a _live_ meeting?"
Frick nodded. The Producer puffed contentedly on his hookahmatic.
He blew a smoke ring, and it puffed itself to pieces against the
phonescreen.
* * * * *
The man raised himself from the ground. His limbs felt weak, and he had
to force the breaths through his lungs.
He got to his feet, feeling somewhat stronger. The forest seemed
as impenetrable as ever, but he faced its challenge now with more
confidence.
_That girl!_ he thought. My God--she was really going to kill him! He
shook his head bewilderedly. Such a young, pretty girl! What had he
done to her? What made her want to do it?
He moved through the forest slowly, ducking branches, trailing the
sources of dim lights in the distance. But as he approached, they
proved to be illusory, odd reflections of moonlight among the trees.
She didn't _want_ to kill him, not really. He could sense that. It was
something more. She was _compelled_ to do it--that was it. Someone had
put her up to it. But who? Who hated him enough?
The speculation made his head ache. He blanked out his thoughts and
decided to concentrate on his predicament. There had to be a way out.
The girl had entered the forest at some point. But where?
He heard the sound of voices, and he stopped breathing.
"Manford means business," one of them said.
"He's plenty worried. T.D. was watching tonight--"
"The sponsors kick T.D., T.D. kicks Manford, and Manford kicks us. Who
do we kick?"
"I don't know about you. I got an old dog home--"
"Okay. Let's separate and find this bird."
"Right. Hey, Lou! Let's have some tracer lights!"
He concealed himself in the brush as a burst of light exploded over
the treetops. He watched the men parade past; ordinary-looking men,
executive types, with white collars and knit ties and flannel suits.
Strangely enough, they seemed quite at home in this wilderness.
He waited until they passed his hiding place. Then he started on a
nimble run in the direction from which they had come.
* * * * *
The producer fitted himself snugly into Executive position: desk,
swivel-chair, and man welded into one solid, efficient unit. He sighed
a comfortable sigh, and glanced up at the wall clock. Ten-thirty. The
_Thrill Show_ would be over in half an hour; the dinosaur film would
wind it up neatly. He'd probably have some explaining to do to the
sponsors tomorrow, but he was all prepared to give the usual "popular
demand" argument.
He regretted the live meeting he had called. It would be two hours at
least before the Staff plowed through the Traffic Jam. That meant he
couldn't leave the office until after one-thirty.
He looked at the hopeless tower of papers on his desk blotter. Most
of them were letters, and his secretary had never quite gotten the
hang of weeding out the chaff. Once he found a letter from an FBC
Vice-President in the Discard File; since then, he ordered all mail to
his desk. He wished he could get a better secretary than Miss Stitch,
but the shortage of A1-rated secretaries (A for "Attractiveness," 1 for
Efficiency) was acute.
He skimmed through the top of the pile quickly.
"Dear Mr. Donnelly.... Certainly enjoyed 'Death in the Ring' ... one of
the best _Thrill Shows_ I've ever seen ... wonder if you would consider
a football thriller I have in mind called 'Murder Kicks Off'...."
"Dear Mr. Donnelly.... Let's have more shows like 'Snake Pit' ... that
Mother and Baby idea was the greatest.... I really thought that woman
would go nuts when she saw her kid with the cobra.... A shocker all the
way...."
"Dear Mr. Donnelly.... If 'Kiss of Death' was your idea of
entertainment, you ought to retire ... sort of sex shmaltz went out
with television ... give us real gutsy stuff and never mind the
mush.... I'm only eleven years old, but I'll bet I could write a better
scenario than that.... I have this idea for a show called...."
"Dear Mr. Donnelly...."
The Producer sighed again. He reached into his pill drawer and took an
ulcer capsule. Then he went back to his correspondence.
When the man entered his office, he didn't even glance up.
"That you, Frick?" he said, eyes on a letter of praise from a Yonkers
housewife.
When the man didn't answer, the Producer looked up.
He gasped. "Hey!" he said.
"Shut up!" the man said harshly. He moved swiftly towards the desk and
lifted a bronze ashtray in a lightning motion. He raised the object
threateningly over the fat man's head.
"Keep quiet!" he said.
"What is this?" The Producer's voice quavered. Then he recognized the
face. "You're the one from the Show--"
The man blinked. His face relaxed, and he lowered the impromptu weapon.
"I--I'm sorry...."
The Producer came around the side of the desk. He took the ashtray from
his hand, and helped him into the interview chair. The man collapsed
limply at his touch.
"How'd you get here?" the Producer said.
"I don't know," the man mumbled. "I found a door ... back there...." He
buried his chin on his chest. His clothes were shredded, and his hands
were trembling.
"Just take it easy," the Producer told him. He stabbed his finger on a
desk button. The signal brought Frick into the office.
"What's up, T.D.?" Then the assistant saw the man in the chair. "My
God," he whispered, swallowing hard. "Gosh, I'm terribly sorry, T.D.--"
"Never mind being sorry," the Producer said gratingly. "Let's just be
thankful he found his way here instead of into the street. If he'd
been picked up by the Police--"
The assistant mopped his brow. "That would have been terrible. They'd
surely recognize him from the show. If the FCC saw him in this
condition--"
"Yes," the Producer said grimly. "If they saw him in this condition,
their medical office would slap an injunction on us so fast--we'd _all_
be out in the Jam. Do you realize that?"
Frick blanched. "I'll get Dr. Stark in here right away. We'll get him
an anti-dope shot immediately--"
"That girl ..." the man said.
"It's okay, fella," Frick said. "You're okay now."
"Never mind him," said the Producer. "Get Spier in here. Right away!"
Frick hurried out. The Producer poured a slug of brandy into a cup and
held it to the man's lips. He gulped it gratefully, and then exploded a
rasping cough. When the cough subsided, he buried his head on his chest
again, breathing heavily.
The Producer studied the man's face. It was oddly familiar.
"Say," he said. He put his hand under the chin and lifted the face up.
The eyes opened. "Aren't you Jerry Spizer?"
The man stared blankly. The Producer grunted. "Huh. Guess you don't
know _who_ you are right now, fella. But you're Jerry Spizer, all
right. Imagine that!" T.D. shook his head. "The great Spizer. In a
_Thrill Show_!" He chuckled dryly.
The doctor bustled into the office, a small cyclone, trailing the
nervous assistant behind him like a flurrying dust cloud.
"Roll up his sleeve," he told the Producer commandingly. He removed the
hypodermic spray-gun from his bag and carefully filled it with a dozen
cc's of the anti-dope. He dabbed the man's arm with a shred of cotton,
and pressed the spray against his flesh. "Good thing I hung around
tonight," the doctor grumbled. "If this man ever got away in this
condition--"
"We know, we know," the Producer said testily. "Fix him up and cut the
chatter--"
"I saw that show," the doctor said. "Somebody sure fouled up. Probably
gave him an overdose."
"We'll get to that later," the Producer promised. "Just do your job,
Doc."
"I'm through," Stark said crisply. "Put him on that couch over there
and raise his legs. He'll come to his senses in about ten minutes--I
hope."
Frick and the Producer helped the man to the sofa. He sprawled on it
full-length, fingers trailing on the carpet.
"Do you know who he is?" T.D. said. "He's Jerry Spizer."
"Who?"
"Spizer. The big TV star. You remember."
The doctor halted in the process of clasping his bag, and came over
to the sofa. He looked at the man's relaxed face. "By God," he said.
"You're right. Now what the hell is Spizer doing on a _Thrill Show_?"
The Producer shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't heard anything about
him for the past eight or ten years."
"He must have had it tough," Frick said musingly. "I mean, a big star
like that on a program like this--"
"What do you mean, 'a program like this'?" The Producer looked
displeased. "If the Staff had a nickel's worth of imagination, they
would have played this up big--"
"Gosh," said Frick. "That's true. We could have used a credit card--"
"I'll bet he wouldn't have permitted it," the doctor said. "You know
what Spizer thought of the _Thrill Show_."
"Yeah?" The Producer's face reddened. "Well, we proved how wrong he
was, didn't we? The public was just sick and tired of that namby-pamby
stuff. There _had_ to be a _Thrill Show_!"
"Sponsors demanded it," Frick said loyally.
"And besides," T.D. added, "if he doesn't like us, what the hell did he
sign up for?"