"Of course," the Producer said quietly. "There's one way out." They looked up at him hopefully. "Remember Juan Esprenzo?" he said. They stared at him. "That was a troublesome situation, too. But we came out of that one, didn't we?" They gaped, silently. "Juan Esprenzo was killed on the 'Angry City' _Thrill Show_ of November 19th, 1985. It was purely an accident, of course. He wandered out of the guidepaths in the studio and was struck by a falling prop. Nobody could have foreseen it, and nobody could have prevented it. His family received $50,000 in insurance. The FCC investigation described the incident as unfortunate, and there was a special Juan Esprenzo Memorial Show held on January 3rd. But these things happen--just as they once did in boxing, football, racing. Nothing unusual. Nothing to ban a program about." They turned their eyes to the outer room, where Jerry Spizer lay in a coma on the studio sofa. "Do you get what I mean?" the Producer said. "Don't you think we could pass another investigation _a la_ Esprenzo--better than we could pass the one we're facing right now?" They looked hopeful and frightened in turn. "You mean--deliberately _kill_ him, T.D.?" "_Cause_ an accident?" "Kill him right on the program?" "Exactly," the Producer said, with a satisfied smile. "Put him on again tomorrow night. Make it a set-up. Have something go wrong. Then keep the cameras trained on him while we rush out of the Studio Control Room to find out if he's all right. The whole country will see it was an accident--only an accident." He turned to Wilson, the head script-writer. "Wilson," he said. "You've got an assignment." * * * * * He awoke in darkness, trembling with the thought of escape. His hands groped around the floor, trying its solidity. When his fingertips found a wall, he raised himself with agonizing slowness, his nails scraping along the ridges in the damp stone. He pressed his hot cheek against the cool surface, and sobbed pitifully. When his eyes adjusted to the feeble light, he measured the strength of his prison, and felt the added terror of hopelessness. He turned his eyes to the pool of darkness in the center of the dungeon, and ventured forth a cautious foot. He had taken only three steps before he heard the voice. "_Look out!_" it said. Then he saw the Pit. He looked with horror at the writhing beasts inside. He sank to his knees, and stared in terrible fascination at their swaying bodies. Then he buried his face in his hands. He looked up when he heard the _swish!_ above him. Gleaming, swinging, evoking a memory in an impossibly distant past--it was a pendulum, of razor-sharp steel. And it was descending.