Part 2

"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.

He screamed, and lifted his arms above his head. The pendulum ground to a halt, the mechanism groaning and screeching in protest. There was a second of silence, and then the blade fell to earth with the suddenness of an avenging sword. This time, the scream was cut off in his throat, and the giant weapon flattened him sickeningly against the edge of the precipice.

Vaguely, as in a dream, he heard the sound of speech, and running footsteps.

"My God! It broke! The pendulum broke!"

"Somebody get the doctor!"

"Look out for that Pit! It's a forty-foot drop!"

"Come on!"

A hand touched his shoulder, and a ring of anxious faces floated like pink balloons over his head.

"I think he's still alive!"

"_What?_"

"He can't be! That thing weighs a ton!"

"Well, he looks pretty bad, but I can see his eyes moving and he seems to be--"

"Get that blade off him!"

He knew that the great weight had been removed from his body, but he could feel no difference. He was looking with almost objective interest into the face of a fat man, a familiar face with wide eyes and an open, bow-lipped mouth. The face was covered with a film of nervous perspiration, and there was a strange sort of anxiety in the man's movements.

"He's got to be! He's got to be!" The fat man was whispering intently.

"But T.D.--"

"Shut up! When you lift him up, I want you to--"

He heard nothing more, but his eyes remained open, fixing the face of the fat man. Then he felt arms around his shoulders once more, and he felt himself slipping, slipping back towards the edge.

With a spurt of strength, with a flash of sudden intelligence, he raised his left arm, and the fingers caught the collar surrounding the fat man's neck in loose folds. He held on grimly, until the fat man screamed with satisfying terror.

"Look out, T.D.!" somebody shrieked.

"He's dragging me with him!" The fat man flailed out helplessly. "He's pulling me over the edge!"

Somebody else leaped to his aid, but the dying man's grip was tenacious, his purpose certain.

"_We're going over!_"

They did: the fat man and his victim, and Cameras Three, Four, and Five caught the action beautifully.

* * * * *

Miss Stitch slipped her compact back into her purse, and straightened the corners of the stack of mail on her desk blotter. She looked towards the empty office of the Producer, and smiled with secretive pleasure. Then she slit open the envelopes in front of her, and leisurely read the morning mail.

"Dear Mr. Donnelly.... Boy, oh boy! What a thriller you gave us the other night! I thought 'Pit and the Pendulum' was one of the best _Thrill Shows_ yet.... I sure was disappointed when I saw the title card and thought you were going to re-hash that old Poe bit, but that new ending of yours really knocked me cold.... I sure got a kick out of seeing that fat old guy going over the edge of the Pit. What a terrific wind-up!... I wonder if you would be interested in a really great story idea?... You see, there's this crazy old guy who has a secret laboratory on a mountain-top.... Well, one night it's raining and lightning like mad.... And this beautiful blonde comes along in a classy convertible...."