They took the Director's suggestion. In a few minutes, the image of Dr. Phil Grayson appeared on Phonescreen Four. He was a young man, with a high, balding forehead and a rabbity mustache. He looked worried when his home screen brought him the picture of the intense group around the conference table.
"What is it?" he said.
"Just checking back on some records, Doctor," T.D. said smoothly. "Remember the man you injected today? This fellow Spizer, for the 'Battle of the Sexes' Show?"
The doctor nodded. "Of course."
"Was there anything unusual about the dosage?"
Grayson looked puzzled. "Naturally not. I gave him the prescribed dosage, just like Dr. Stark told me. Ten cc's of nor-adrenalin, forty-four cc's of that—what d'you call it—hypnomecholyl. Why?"
Dr. Stark paled. "I told you that?" he said. The color rushed back into his cheeks a bright crimson. "I told you adrenalin, you fool. Not nor-adrenalin! And four cc's of hypnomecholyl." He looked wildly at the men around the table. "I swear I told him!" he said.
"You didn't!" the young doctor gasped. "You told me forty-four—"
Stark jumped to his feet, his face livid. He started towards the phonescreen as if to throttle the two-dimensional image on the glass.
"You're a liar!" he cried. "You knew it was an Anger-Emotion Show! You knew what was required—"