The Producer looked wise. "Yes," he said solemnly. "He'd be better off
dead, wouldn't he?"
The Staff stared at him.
"You know what I'm talking about," T.D. said. "He'd be better off dead.
Better for him, for the _Thrill Show_, for us."
"Well," Manford said feebly.
"Well, nothing!" The Producer's voice was harsh. "Do you get the
significance of all this? Do you know what happens when the FCC medical
officer wants to re-check Spizer? An injunction! A court battle!
Then Spizer goes on the stand as Exhibit A, and we lose. No more
_Thrill Show_." He looked at their faces individually. "No more jobs.
Bankruptcy. Poverty. The Jam."
This time, the shiver was collective.
"We can't let that happen!" Manford licked his lips. "What about the
sponsors? They got pull, don't they? They need us, don't they? I mean,
nothing else will give 'em the kind of ratings they get from the
_Thrill Show_--"
"Their hands will be tied," T.D. said. "One slip is all the Federal
boys have been waiting for. And with all that foreign criticism our
State Department's been getting--"
"They still buy our films abroad," another Staff man said glumly.
"That won't matter." The Producer sat down heavily, and put the cold
end of his hookahmatic in his mouth. "The _Thrill Show_ is doomed.
Let's face it."
The group dropped their eyes to the table.
"Of course," the Producer said quietly. "There's one way out."
They looked up at him hopefully.
"Remember Juan Esprenzo?" he said.
They stared at him.
"That was a troublesome situation, too. But we came out of that one,
didn't we?"
They gaped, silently.
"Juan Esprenzo was killed on the 'Angry City' _Thrill Show_ of November
19th, 1985. It was purely an accident, of course. He wandered out
of the guidepaths in the studio and was struck by a falling prop.
Nobody could have foreseen it, and nobody could have prevented it. His
family received $50,000 in insurance. The FCC investigation described
the incident as unfortunate, and there was a special Juan Esprenzo
Memorial Show held on January 3rd. But these things happen--just as
they once did in boxing, football, racing. Nothing unusual. Nothing to
ban a program about."
They turned their eyes to the outer room, where Jerry Spizer lay in a
coma on the studio sofa.
"Do you get what I mean?" the Producer said. "Don't you think we could
pass another investigation _a la_ Esprenzo--better than we could pass
the one we're facing right now?"
They looked hopeful and frightened in turn.
"You mean--deliberately _kill_ him, T.D.?"
"_Cause_ an accident?"
"Kill him right on the program?"
"Exactly," the Producer said, with a satisfied smile. "Put him on again
tomorrow night. Make it a set-up. Have something go wrong. Then keep
the cameras trained on him while we rush out of the Studio Control Room
to find out if he's all right. The whole country will see it was an
accident--only an accident."
He turned to Wilson, the head script-writer.
"Wilson," he said. "You've got an assignment."
* * * * *
He awoke in darkness, trembling with the thought of escape.
His hands groped around the floor, trying its solidity. When his
fingertips found a wall, he raised himself with agonizing slowness, his
nails scraping along the ridges in the damp stone.
He pressed his hot cheek against the cool surface, and sobbed pitifully.
When his eyes adjusted to the feeble light, he measured the strength of
his prison, and felt the added terror of hopelessness. He turned his
eyes to the pool of darkness in the center of the dungeon, and ventured
forth a cautious foot.
He had taken only three steps before he heard the voice.
"_Look out!_" it said.
Then he saw the Pit.
He looked with horror at the writhing beasts inside.
He sank to his knees, and stared in terrible fascination at their
swaying bodies. Then he buried his face in his hands.
He looked up when he heard the _swish!_ above him.
Gleaming, swinging, evoking a memory in an impossibly distant past--it
was a pendulum, of razor-sharp steel.
And it was descending.
He screamed, and lifted his arms above his head. The pendulum ground
to a halt, the mechanism groaning and screeching in protest. There
was a second of silence, and then the blade fell to earth with the
suddenness of an avenging sword. This time, the scream was cut off in
his throat, and the giant weapon flattened him sickeningly against the
edge of the precipice.
Vaguely, as in a dream, he heard the sound of speech, and running
footsteps.
"My God! It broke! The pendulum broke!"
"Somebody get the doctor!"
"Look out for that Pit! It's a forty-foot drop!"
"Come on!"
A hand touched his shoulder, and a ring of anxious faces floated like
pink balloons over his head.
"I think he's still alive!"
"_What?_"
"He can't be! That thing weighs a ton!"
"Well, he looks pretty bad, but I can see his eyes moving and he seems
to be--"
"Get that blade off him!"
He knew that the great weight had been removed from his body, but he
could feel no difference. He was looking with almost objective interest
into the face of a fat man, a familiar face with wide eyes and an
open, bow-lipped mouth. The face was covered with a film of nervous
perspiration, and there was a strange sort of anxiety in the man's
movements.
"He's got to be! He's got to be!" The fat man was whispering intently.
"But T.D.--"
"Shut up! When you lift him up, I want you to--"
He heard nothing more, but his eyes remained open, fixing the face of
the fat man. Then he felt arms around his shoulders once more, and he
felt himself slipping, slipping back towards the edge.
With a spurt of strength, with a flash of sudden intelligence, he
raised his left arm, and the fingers caught the collar surrounding the
fat man's neck in loose folds. He held on grimly, until the fat man
screamed with satisfying terror.
"Look out, T.D.!" somebody shrieked.
"He's dragging me with him!" The fat man flailed out helplessly. "He's
pulling me over the edge!"
Somebody else leaped to his aid, but the dying man's grip was
tenacious, his purpose certain.
"_We're going over!_"
They did: the fat man and his victim, and Cameras Three, Four, and Five
caught the action beautifully.
* * * * *
Miss Stitch slipped her compact back into her purse, and straightened
the corners of the stack of mail on her desk blotter. She looked
towards the empty office of the Producer, and smiled with secretive
pleasure. Then she slit open the envelopes in front of her, and
leisurely read the morning mail.
"Dear Mr. Donnelly.... Boy, oh boy! What a thriller you gave us the
other night! I thought 'Pit and the Pendulum' was one of the best
_Thrill Shows_ yet.... I sure was disappointed when I saw the title
card and thought you were going to re-hash that old Poe bit, but that
new ending of yours really knocked me cold.... I sure got a kick out
of seeing that fat old guy going over the edge of the Pit. What a
terrific wind-up!... I wonder if you would be interested in a really
great story idea?... You see, there's this crazy old guy who has a
secret laboratory on a mountain-top.... Well, one night it's raining
and lightning like mad.... And this beautiful blonde comes along in a
classy convertible...."