The man raised himself from the ground. His limbs felt weak, and he had to force the breaths through his lungs. He got to his feet, feeling somewhat stronger. The forest seemed as impenetrable as ever, but he faced its challenge now with more confidence. _That girl!_ he thought. My God--she was really going to kill him! He shook his head bewilderedly. Such a young, pretty girl! What had he done to her? What made her want to do it? He moved through the forest slowly, ducking branches, trailing the sources of dim lights in the distance. But as he approached, they proved to be illusory, odd reflections of moonlight among the trees. She didn't _want_ to kill him, not really. He could sense that. It was something more. She was _compelled_ to do it--that was it. Someone had put her up to it. But who? Who hated him enough? The speculation made his head ache. He blanked out his thoughts and decided to concentrate on his predicament. There had to be a way out. The girl had entered the forest at some point. But where? He heard the sound of voices, and he stopped breathing. "Manford means business," one of them said. "He's plenty worried. T.D. was watching tonight--" "The sponsors kick T.D., T.D. kicks Manford, and Manford kicks us. Who do we kick?" "I don't know about you. I got an old dog home--" "Okay. Let's separate and find this bird." "Right. Hey, Lou! Let's have some tracer lights!" He concealed himself in the brush as a burst of light exploded over the treetops. He watched the men parade past; ordinary-looking men, executive types, with white collars and knit ties and flannel suits. Strangely enough, they seemed quite at home in this wilderness. He waited until they passed his hiding place. Then he started on a nimble run in the direction from which they had come. * * * * * The producer fitted himself snugly into Executive position: desk, swivel-chair, and man welded into one solid, efficient unit. He sighed a comfortable sigh, and glanced up at the wall clock. Ten-thirty. The _Thrill Show_ would be over in half an hour; the dinosaur film would wind it up neatly. He'd probably have some explaining to do to the sponsors tomorrow, but he was all prepared to give the usual "popular demand" argument. He regretted the live meeting he had called. It would be two hours at least before the Staff plowed through the Traffic Jam. That meant he couldn't leave the office until after one-thirty. He looked at the hopeless tower of papers on his desk blotter. Most of them were letters, and his secretary had never quite gotten the hang of weeding out the chaff. Once he found a letter from an FBC Vice-President in the Discard File; since then, he ordered all mail to his desk. He wished he could get a better secretary than Miss Stitch, but the shortage of A1-rated secretaries (A for "Attractiveness," 1 for Efficiency) was acute. He skimmed through the top of the pile quickly.