"He'd better," Stark said warningly. "If the anti-dope doesn't work, it could mean a lot of trouble for the _Thrill Show_, Mr. Donnelly--" The Producer looked frightened. "That's ridiculous. It's got to work. It's _always_ worked--" "You better call your Staff," the doctor said. "Find out what dosage they gave this man. Check his FCC medical authorization. And do it fast, Mr. Donnelly. This is just the kind of thing the FCC can hang you on." "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?" 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--"