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.
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