"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."