presented Watt with a gleaming salver full ofnothing. Watt and the waiter regarded the tray.
Then their eyes met. There was a brief silence.
"Here," Martin said, replacing the glass. "Much too weak. Get meanother, please. I'm reorienting toward a new phase, which means adifferent optimum," he explained to the puzzled Watt as he readjusted achair beside the great man and dropped into it. Odd that he had neverbefore felt at ease during rushes. Right now he felt fine. Perfectly atease. Relaxed.
"Scotch and soda for Mr. Martin," Watt said calmly. "And another forme."
"So, so, so, now we begin," St. Cyr cried impatiently. He spoke into ahand microphone. Instantly the screen on the ceiling flickered noisilyand began to unfold a series of rather ragged scenes in which a chorusof mermaids danced on their tails down the street of a little Floridafishing village.
To understand the full loathsomeness of the fate facing Nicholas Martin,it is necessary to view a St. Cyr production. It seemed to Martin thathe was watching the most noisome movie ever put upon film. He wasconscious that St. Cyr and Watt were stealing rather mystified glancesat him. In the dark he put up two fingers and sketched a robot-likegrin. Then, feeling sublimely sure of himself, he lit a cigarette andchuckled aloud.
"You laugh?" St. Cyr demanded with instant displeasure. "You do notappreciate great art? What do you know about it, eh? Are you a genius?"
"This," Martin said urbanely, "is the most noisome movie ever put onfilm."
In the sudden, deathly quiet which followed, Martin flicked asheselegantly and added, "With my help, you may yet avoid becoming thelaughing stock of the whole continent. Every foot of this picture mustbe junked. Tomorrow bright and early we will start all over, and--"
Watt said quietly, "We're quite competent to make a film out of_Angelina Noel_, Martin."
"It is artistic!" St. Cyr shouted. "And it will make money, too!"
"Bah, money!" Martin said cunningly. He flicked more ash with a lavishgesture. "Who cares about money? Let Summit worry."
Watt leaned forward to peer searchingly at Martin in the dimness.
"Raoul," he said, glancing at St. Cyr, "I understood you were gettingyour--ah--your new writers whipped into shape. This doesn't sound to meas if--"
"Yes, yes, yes, yes," St. Cyr cried excitedly. "Whipped into shape,exactly! A brief delirium, eh? Martin, you feel well? You feelyourself?"
Martin laughed with quiet confidence. "Never fear," he said. "The moneyyou spend on me is well worth what I'll bring you in prestige. I quiteunderstand. Our confidential talks were not to be secret from Watt, ofcourse."
"What confidential talks?" bellowed St. Cyr thickly, growing red.
"We need keep nothing from Watt, need we?" Martin went on imperturably."You hired me for prestige, and prestige you'll get, if you can onlykeep your big mouth shut long enough. I'll make the name of St. Cyrglorious for you. Naturally you may lose something at the box-office,but it's well worth--"
"_Pjrzqxgl!_" roared St. Cyr in his native tongue, and he lumbered upfrom the chair, brandishing the microphone in an enormous, hairy hand.
Deftly Martin reached out and twitched it from his grasp.
"Stop the film," he ordered crisply.
It was very strange. A distant part of his mind knew that normally hewould never have dared behave this way, but he felt convinced that neverbefore in his life had he acted with complete normality. He glowed witha giddy warmth of confidence that everything he did would be right, atleast while the twelve-hour treatment lasted....
* * * * *
The screen flickered hesitantly, then went blank.
"Turn the lights on," Martin ordered the unseen presence beyond themike. Softly and suddenly the room glowed with illumination. And uponthe visages of Watt and St. Cyr he saw a mutual dawning uneasiness beginto break.
He had just given them food for thought. But he had given them more thanthat. He tried to imagine what moved in the minds of the two men, belowthe suspicions he had just implanted. St. Cyr's was fairly obvious. TheMixo-Lydian licked his lips--no mean task--and studied Martin withuneasy little bloodshot eyes. Clearly Martin had acquired confidencefrom somewhere. What did it mean? What secret sin of St. Cyr's had beendiscovered to him, what flaw in his contract, that he dared behave sodefiantly?
Tolliver Watt was a horse of another color; apparently the man had noguilty secrets; but he too looked uneasy. Martin studied the proud faceand probed for inner weaknesses. Watt would be a harder nut to crack.But Martin could do it.
"That last underwater sequence," he now said, pursuing his theme. "Puretrash, you know. It'll have to come out. The whole scene must be shotfrom under water."
"Shut up!" St. Cyr shouted violently.
"But it must, you know," Martin went on. "Or it won't jibe with the newstuff I've written in. In fact, I'm not at all certain that the wholepicture shouldn't be shot under water. You know, we could use thedocumentary technique--"
"Raoul," Watt said suddenly, "what's this man trying to do?"
"He is trying to break his contract, of course," St. Cyr said, turningruddy olive. "It is the bad phase all my writers go through before I getthem whipped into shape. In Mixo-Lydia--"
"Are you sure he'll whip into shape?" Watt asked.
"To me this is now a personal matter," St. Cyr said, glaring at Martin."I have spent nearly thirteen weeks on this man and I do not intend towaste my valuable time on another. I tell you he is simply trying tobreak his contract--tricks, tricks, tricks."
"Are you?" Watt asked Martin coldly.
"Not now," Martin said. "I've changed my mind. My agent insists I'd bebetter off away from Summit. In fact, she has the curious feeling that Iand Summit would suffer by a mesalliance. But for the first time I'm notsure I agree. I begin to see possibilities, even in the tripe St. Cyrhas been stuffing down the public's throat for years. Of course I can'twork miracles all at once. Audiences have come to expect garbage fromSummit, and they've even been conditioned to like it. But we'll begin ina small way to re-educate them with this picture. I suggest we try tosymbolize the Existentialist hopelessness of it all by ending the filmwith a full four hundred feet of seascapes--nothing but vast, heavingstretches of ocean," he ended, on a note of complacent satisfaction.
A vast, heaving stretch of Raoul St. Cyr rose from his chair andadvanced upon Martin.
"Outside, outside!" he shouted. "Back to your cell, you double-crossingvermin! I, Raoul St. Cyr, command it. Outside, before I rip you limbfrom limb--"
Martin spoke quickly. His voice was calm, but he knew he would have towork fast.
"You see, Watt?" he said clearly, meeting Watt's rather startled gaze."Doesn't dare let you exchange three words with me, for fear I'll letsomething slip. No wonder he's trying to put me out of here--he'sskating on thin ice these days."
Goaded, St. Cyr rolled forward in a ponderous lunge, but Wattinterposed. It was true, of course, that the writer was probably tryingto break his contract. But there were wheels within wheels here. Martinwas too confident, too debonaire. Something was going on which Watt didnot understand.
"All right, Raoul," he said decisively. "Relax for a minute. I saidrelax! We don't want Nick here suing you for assault and battery, do we?Your artistic temperament carries you away sometimes. Relax and let'shear what Nick has to say."
"Watch out for him, Tolliver!" St. Cyr cried warningly. "They'recunning, these creatures. Cunning as rats. You never know--"
Martin raised the microphone with a lordly gesture. Ignoring thedirector, he said commandingly into the mike, "Put me through to thecommissary. The bar, please. Yes. I want to order a drink. Somethingvery special. A--ah--a Helena Glinska--"
* * * * *
"Hello," Erika Ashby's voice said from the door. "Nick, are you there?May I come in?"
The sound of her voice sent delicious chills rushing up and downMartin's spine. He swung round, mike in hand, to welcome her. But St.Cyr, pleased at this div
ersion, roared before he could speak.
"No, no, no, no! Go! Go at once. Whoever you are--_out_!"
Erika, looking very brisk, attractive and firm, marched into the roomand cast at Martin a look of resigned patience.
Very clearly she expected to fight both her own battles and his.
"I'm on business here," she told St. Cyr coldly. "You can't part authorand agent like this. Nick and I want to have a word with Mr. Watt."
"Ah, my pretty creature, sit down," Martin said