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.