and turned to go.

Bell said:

"One more thing. If you're planning to use a news cameraman up
here--don't! I used to be a cameraman before I got crazy and started to
write. Let me do the camera-work. I've got a better idea of using a
camera to tell a story now, than--"

"Hold it," said Cochrane. "We're not up here to film-tape a show. Our
job is psychiatry--craziness."

To a self-respecting producer, a psychiatric production would seem
craziness. A script-writer might have trouble writing out a
psychiatrist's prescription, or he might not. But producing it would be
out of all rationality! No camera, the patient would be the star, and
most lines would be ad libbed. Cochrane viewed such a production with
extreme distaste. But of course, if a man wanted only to be famous, it
might be handled as a straight public-relations job. In any case,
though, it would amount to flattery in three dimensions and Cochrane
would rather have no part in it. But he had to arrange the whole thing.

He went back to the table and rejoined Babs. She confided that she'd
been talking to Johnny Simms' wife. She was nice! But homesick. Cochrane
sat down and thought morbid thoughts. Then he realized that he was
irritated because Babs didn't notice. He finished his drink and ordered
another.

Half an hour later, Holden found them. He had in tow a sad-looking
youngish man with a remarkably narrow forehead and an expression of deep