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 

 Prev. P 9/16 next