"Thank God I called that meeting!" the Producer said.
"Here's the straight poop."
Manford, the Thrill Show director, looked briskly around the room. They had gathered around the table in the conference room, the Staff members still hollow-cheeked and shaken by their experience in the Jam.
"This fellow came into the office last week and signed up for a spot in the Thrill Show. We needed somebody for the 'Battle of the Sexes' show, and he was a pretty nice-looking guy. A little seedy, maybe. But all right. He gave his right name—here's his record—but nobody on the interviewing staff recognized him. Guess they're all a little too young to remember Jerry Spizer very well—"
"All right," the Producer prodded. "So what happened?"
"Well, just the routine things. The FCC medical officer gave him the standard physical. His psych check wasn't the best we've ever had, but that's always a debatable business. When he showed up for work yesterday, we gave him the regular dose of ten cc's of adrenalin and four cc's of hypnomecholyl. That's s.o.p. for an Anger-Emotion Show, of course."
The Producer looked at Stark. "Did you give him the shot?"
"No." The doctor shuffled the papers in his hands. "That new fellow, Grayson. Do you want to see him?"
"He's gone home," Manford said. "It'll take an hour to get him here. Why not phonescreen him?"