triesto bully you, I'll handle him. But you've got to be there with me, orSt. Cyr will make that an excuse to postpone things again. I know him."
"Now I'm under stress again," Martin said wildly. "I can't stand it._I'm_ not the Tsar of Russia."
"Lady," said the cab-driver, looking back, "if I was you, I'd sure ashell break off that engagement."
"Heads will roll for this," Martin said ominously.
* * * * *
"By mutual consent, agree to terminate ... yes," Watt said, affixing hisname to the legal paper that lay before him on the desk. "That does it.But where in the world is that fellow Martin? He came in with you, I'mcertain."
"Did he?" Erika asked, rather wildly. She too, was wondering how Martinhad managed to vanish so miraculously from her side. Perhaps he hadcrept with lightning rapidity under the carpet. She forced her mind fromthe thought and reached for the contract release Watt was folding.
"Wait," St. Cyr said, his lower lip jutting. "What about a clause givingus an option on Martin's next play?"
Watt paused, and the director instantly struck home.
"Whatever it may be, I can turn it into a vehicle for DeeDee, eh,DeeDee?" He lifted a sausage finger at the lovely star, who noddedobediently.
"It's going to have an all-male cast," Erika said hastily. "And we'rediscussing contract releases, not options."
"He would give me an option if I had him here," St. Cyr growled,torturing his cigar horribly. "Why does everything conspire against anartist?" He waved a vast, hairy fist in the air. "Now I must break in anew writer, which is a great waste. Within a fortnight Martin would havebeen a St. Cyr writer. In fact, it is still possible."
"I'm afraid not, Raoul," Watt said resignedly. "You really shouldn'thave hit Martin at the studio today."
"But--but he would not dare charge me with assault. In Mixo-Lydia--"
"Why, hello, Nick," DeeDee said, with a bright smile. "What are youhiding behind those curtains for?"
Every eye was turned toward the window draperies, just in time to seethe white, terrified face of Nicholas Martin flip out of sight like ascared chipmunk's. Erika, her heart dropping, said hastily, "Oh, thatisn't Nick. It doesn't look a bit like him. You made a mistake, DeeDee."
"Did I?" DeeDee asked, perfectly willing to agree.
"Certainly," Erika said, reaching for the contract release in Watt'shand. "Now if you'll just let me have this, I'll--"
"Stop!" cried St. Cyr in a bull's bellow. Head sunk between his heavyshoulders, he lumbered to the window and jerked the curtains aside.
"Ha!" the director said in a sinister voice. "Martin."
"It's a lie," Martin said feebly, making a desperate attempt to concealhis stress-triggered panic. "I've abdicated."
St. Cyr, who had stepped back a pace, was studying Martin carefully.Slowly the cigar in his mouth began to tilt upwards. An unpleasant grinwidened the director's mouth.
He shook a finger under Martin's quivering nostrils.
"You!" he said. "Tonight it is a different tune, eh? Today you weredrunk. Now I see it all. Valorous with pots, like they say."
"Nonsense," Martin said, rallying his courage by a glance at Erika. "Whosay? Nobody but you would say a thing like that. Now what's this allabout?"
"What were you doing behind that curtain?" Watt asked.
"_I_ wasn't behind the curtain," Martin said, with great bravado. "_You_were. All of you. I was in front of the curtain. Can I help it if thewhole lot of you conceal yourselves behind curtains in a library,like--like conspirators?" The word was unfortunately chosen. A panickylight flashed into Martin's eyes. "Yes, conspirators," he went onnervously. "You think I don't know, eh? Well, I do. You're allassassins, plotting and planning. So this is your headquarters, is it?All night your hired dogs have been at my heels, driving me like awounded caribou to--"
"We've got to be going," Erika said desperately. "There's just time tocatch the next carib--the next plane east." She reached for the contractrelease, but Watt suddenly put it in his pocket. He turned his chairtoward Martin.
"Will you give us an option on your next play?" he demanded.
"Of course he will give us an option!" St. Cyr said, studying Martin'sair of bravado with an experienced eye. "Also, there is to be noquestion of a charge of assault, for, if there is I will beat you. So itis in Mixo-Lydia. In fact, you do not even want a release from yourcontract, Martin. It is all a mistake. I will turn you into a St. Cyrwriter, and all will be well. So. Now you will ask Tolliver to tear upthat release, will you not--_ha_?"
"Of course you won't, Nick," Erika cried. "Say so!"
* * * * *
There was a pregnant silence. Watt watched with sharp interest. So didthe unhappy Erika, torn between her responsibility as Martin's agent andher disgust at the man's abject cowardice. DeeDee watched too, her eyesvery wide and a cheerful smile upon her handsome face. But the battlewas obviously between Martin and Raoul St. Cyr.
Martin drew himself up desperately. Now or never he must force himselfto be truly Terrible. Already he had a troubled expression, just likeIvan. He strove to look sinister too. An enigmatic smile played aroundhis lips. For an instant he resembled the Mad Tsar of Russia, except, ofcourse, that he was clean-shaven. With contemptuous, regal power Martinstared down the Mixo-Lydian.
"You will tear up that release and sign an agreement giving us option onyour next play too, ha?" St. Cyr said--but a trifle uncertainly.
"I'll do as I please," Martin told him. "How would you like to be eatenalive by dogs?"
"I don't know, Raoul," Watt said. "Let's try to get this settled evenif--"
"Do you want me to go over to Metro and take DeeDee with me?" St. Cyrcried, turning toward Watt. "He _will_ sign!" And, reaching into aninner pocket for a pen, the burly director swung back toward Martin.
"_Assassin!_" cried Martin, misinterpreting the gesture.
A gloating smile appeared on St. Cyr's revolting features.
"Now we have him, Tolliver," he said, with heavy triumph, and theseominous words added the final stress to Martin's overwhelming burden.With a mad cry he rushed past St. Cyr, wrenched open a door, and fled.
From behind him came Erika's Valkyrie voice.
"Leave him alone! Haven't you done enough already? Now I'm going to getthat contract release from you before I leave this room, Tolliver Watt,and I warn you, St. Cyr, if you--"
But by then Martin was five rooms away, and the voice faded. He dartedon, hopelessly trying to make himself slow down and return to the sceneof battle. The pressure was too strong. Terror hurled him down acorridor, into another room, and against a metallic object from which herebounded, to find himself sitting on the floor looking up at ENIACGamma the Ninety-Third.
"Ah, there you are," the robot said. "I've been searching all overspace-time for you. You forgot to give me a waiver of responsibilitywhen you talked me into varying the experiment. The Authorities would bein my gears if I didn't bring back an eyeprinted waiver when a subject'sscratched by variance."
With a frightened glance behind him, Martin rose to his feet.
"What?" he asked confusedly. "Listen, you've got to change me back tomyself. Everyone's trying to kill me. You're just in time. I can't waittwelve hours. Change me back to myself, quick!"
"Oh, I'm through with you," the robot said callously. "You're no longera suitably unconditioned subject, after that last treatment you insistedon. I should have got the waiver from you then, but you got me allconfused with Disraeli's oratory. Now here. Just hold this up to yourleft eye for twenty seconds." He extended a flat, glittering littlemetal disk. "It's already sensitized and filled out. It only needs youreyeprint. Affix it, and you'll never see me again."
Martin shrank away.
"But what's going to happen to me?" he quavered, swallowing.
"How should I know? After twelve hours, the treatment will wear off, andyou'll be yourself again. Hold this up to your eye, now."
; "I will if you'll change me back to myself," Martin haggled.
"I can't. It's against the rules. One variance is bad enough, even witha filed waiver, but two? Oh, no. Hold this up to your left eye--"
"No," Martin said with feeble firmness. "I won't."
ENIAC studied him.
"Yes, you will," the robot said finally, "or I'll go boo at you."
Martin paled slightly, but he shook his head in desperate determination.
"No," he said doggedly. "Unless I get rid of Ivan's matrix right now,Erika will never marry me and I'll never get my contract release fromWatt. All you have to do is put that helmet on my head and change meback to myself. Is that too much to ask?"
"Certainly, of a robot," ENIAC said stiffly. "No more shilly-shallying.It's lucky you are wearing the Ivan-matrix, so I can impose my will onyou. Put your eyeprint on this. Instantly!"
Martin rushed behind the couch and hid. The robot advanced menacingly.And at that moment, pushed to the last ditch, Martin suddenly rememberedsomething.
He faced the robot.
* * * * *
"Wait," he said. "You don't understand. I can't eyeprint that thing. Itwon't work on me. Don't you realize that? It's supposed to take theeyeprint--"
"--of the rod-and-cone pattern of the retina," the robot said. "So--"
"So how can it do that unless I can keep my eye open for twenty seconds?My perceptive reaction-thresholds are Ivan's aren't they? I can'tcontrol the reflex of blinking. I've got a coward's synapses. And they'dforce me to shut my eyes tight the second that gimmick got too close tothem."
"Hold them open," the robot suggested. "With your fingers."
"My fingers have reflexes too," Martin argued, moving toward asideboard. "There's only one answer. I've got to get drunk. If I'm halfstupefied with liquor, my reflexes will be so slow I won't be able toshut my eyes. And don't try to use force, either. If I dropped dead withfear, how could you get my eyeprint then?"
"Very easily," the robot said. "I'd pry open your lids--"
Martin hastily reached for a bottle on the sideboard, and a glass. Buthis hand swerved aside and gripped, instead, a siphon of soda water.
"--only," ENIAC went on, "the forgery might be detected."
Martin fizzled the glass full of soda and took a long drink.
"I won't be long getting drunk," he said, his voice thickening. "Infact, it's beginning to work already. See? I'm cooperating."
The robot hesitated.
"Well, hurry up about it," he said, and sat down.
Martin, about to take another drink, suddenly paused, staring at ENIAC.Then, with a sharply indrawn breath, he lowered the glass.
"What's the matter now?" the robot asked. "Drink your--what is it?"
"It's whiskey," Martin told the inexperienced automaton, "but now I seeit all. You've put poison in it. So that's your plan, is it? Well, Iwon't touch another drop, and now you'll never get my eyeprint. I'm nofool."
"Cog Almighty," the robot said, rising. "You poured that drink yourself.How could I have poisoned it? Drink!"
"I won't," Martin said, with a coward's stubbornness, fighting back thegrowing suspicion that the drink might really be toxic.
"You swallow that drink," ENIAC commanded, his voice beginning to quiverslightly. "It's perfectly harmless."
"Then prove it!" Martin said cunningly. "Would you be willing to switchglasses? Would you drink this poisoned brew yourself?"
"How do you expect me to drink?" the robot demanded. "I--" He paused."All right, hand me the glass," he said. "I'll take a sip. Then you'vegot to drink the rest of it."
"Aha!" Martin said. "You betrayed yourself that time. You're a robot.You can't drink, remember? Not the same way that I can, anyhow. Now I'vegot you trapped, you assassin. _There's_ your brew." He pointed to afloor-lamp. "Do you dare to drink with me now, in your electricalfashion, or do you admit you are trying to poison me? Wait a minute,what am I saying? That wouldn't prove a--"
"Of course it would," the robot said hastily. "You're perfectly right,and it's very cunning of you. We'll drink together, and that will proveyour whiskey's harmless--so you'll keep on drinking till your reflexesslow down, see?"
"Well," Martin began uncertainly, but the unscrupulous robot unscrewed abulb from the floor lamp, pulled the switch, and inserted his fingerinto the empty socket, which caused a crackling flash. "There," therobot said. "It isn't poisoned, see?"
"You're not swallowing it," Martin said suspiciously. "You're holding itin your mouth--I mean your finger."
ENIAC again probed the socket.
"Well, all right, perhaps," Martin said, in a doubtful fashion. "But I'mnot going to risk your slipping a powder in my liquor, you traitor.You're going to keep up with me, drink for drink, until I can eyeprintthat gimmick of yours--or else I stop drinking. But does sticking yourfinger in that lamp really prove my liquor isn't poisoned? I can'tquite--"
"Of course it does," the robot said quickly. "I'll prove it. I'll do itagain ... _f(t)_. Powerful DC, isn't it? Certainly it proves it. Keepdrinking, now."
* * * * *
His gaze watchfully on the robot, Martin lifted his glass of club soda.
"_F ff ff f(t)!_" cried the robot, some time later, sketching asingularly loose smile on its metallic face.
"Best fermented mammoth's milk I ever tasted," Martin agreed, liftinghis tenth glass of soda-water. He felt slightly queasy and wondered ifhe might be drowning.
"Mammoth's milk?" asked ENIAC thickly. "What year is this?"
Martin drew a long breath. Ivan's capacious memory had served him verywell so far. Voltage, he recalled, increased the frequency of therobot's thought-patterns and disorganized ENIAC's memory--which wasbeing proved before his eyes. But the crux of his plan was yet tocome....
"The year of the great Hairy One, of course," Martin said briskly."Don't you remember?"
"Then you--" ENIAC strove to focus upon his drinking-companion. "Youmust be Mammoth-Slayer."
"That's it!" Martin cried. "Have another jolt. What about giving me thetreatment now?"
"What treatment?"
Martin looked impatient. "You said you were going to impose thecharacter-matrix of Mammoth-Slayer on my mind. You said _that_ wouldinsure my optimum ecological adjustment in this temporal phase, andnothing else would."
"Did I? But you're not Mammoth-Slayer," ENIAC said confusedly."Mammoth-Slayer was the son of the Great Hairy One. What's your mother'sname?"
"The Great Hairy One," Martin replied, at which the robot grated itshand across its gleaming forehead.
"Have one more jolt," Martin suggested. "Now take out the ecologizer andput it on my head."
"Like this?" ENIAC asked, obeying. "I keep feeling I've forgottensomething important. _F (t)._"
Martin adjusted the crystal helmet on his skull. "Now," he commanded."Give me the character-matrix of Mammoth-Slayer, son of the Great HairyOne."
"Well--all right," ENIAC said dizzily. The red ribbons swirled. Therewas a flash from the helmet. "There," the robot said. "It's done. It maytake a few minutes to begin functioning, but then for twelve hoursyou'll--wait! Where are you going?"
But Martin had already departed.
The robot stuffed the helmet and the quarter-mile of red ribbon back forthe last time. He lurched to the floor-lamp, muttering something aboutone for the road. Afterward, the room lay empty. A fading murmur said,"_F(t)._"
* * * * *
"Nick!" Erika gasped, staring at the figure in the doorway. "Don't standlike that! You frighten me!"
Everyone in the room looked up abruptly at her cry, and so were just intime to see a horrifying change take place in Martin's shape. It was anillusion, of course, but an alarming one. His knees slowly bent until hewas half-crouching, his shoulders slumped as though bowed by the weightof enormous back and shoulder muscles, and his arms swung forward untiltheir knuckles hung perilously near the floor.
<
br /> Nicholas Martin had at last achieved a personality whose ecological normwould put him on a level with Raoul St. Cyr.
"Nick!" Erika quavered.
Slowly Martin's jaw protruded till his lower teeth were hideouslyvisible. Gradually his eyelids dropped until he was peering up out oftiny, wicked sockets. Then, slowly, a perfectly shocking grin broadenedMr. Martin's mouth.
"Erika," he said throatily. "Mine!"
And with that, he shambled