demandednervously.
"Quite sure, Mr.--eh--Mr. Martin."
"I _am_ Mr. Martin," cried Martin with terrified defiance. "By all thelaws of God and man, Mr. Martin I am and Mr. Martin I will remain, inspite of all attempts by rebellious dogs to depose me from my rightfulplace."
"Yes, sir. The broom-closet, you say, sir?"
"The broom-closet. Immediately. But swear not to tell another soul, nomatter how much you're threatened. I'll protect you."
"Very well, sir. Is that all?"
"Yes. Tell Miss Ashby to hurry. Hang up now. The line may be tapped. Ihave enemies."
There was a click. Martin replaced his own receiver and furtivelysurveyed the broom-closet. He told himself that this was ridiculous.There was nothing to be afraid of, was there? True, the broom-closet'snarrow walls were closing in upon him alarmingly, while the ceilingdescended....
Panic-stricken, Martin emerged from the closet, took a long breath, andthrew back his shoulders. "N-not a thing to be afraid of," he said."Who's afraid?" Whistling, he began to stroll down the hall toward thestaircase, but midway agoraphobia overcame him, and his nerve broke.
He ducked into his own office and sweated quietly in the dark until hehad mustered up enough courage to turn on a lamp.
The Encyclopedia Britannica, in its glass-fronted cabinet, caught hiseye. With noiseless haste, Martin secured _ITALY_ to _LORD_ and openedthe volume at his desk. Something, obviously, was very, very wrong. Therobot had said that Martin wasn't going to like being Ivan the Terrible,come to think of it. But was Martin wearing Ivan's character-matrix?Perhaps he'd got somebody else's matrix by mistake--that of some arrantcoward. Or maybe the Mad Tsar of Russia had really been called Ivan theTerrified. Martin flipped the rustling pages nervously. Ivan, Ivan--hereit was.
Son of Helena Glinska ... married Anastasia Zakharina-Koshkina ...private life unspeakably abominable ... memory astonishing, energyindefatigable, ungovernable fury--great natural ability, politicalforesight, anticipated the ideals of Peter the Great--Martin shook hishead.
Then he caught his breath at the next line.
Ivan had lived in an atmosphere of apprehension, imagining that everyman's hand was against him.
"Just like me," Martin murmured. "But--but there was more to Ivan thanjust cowardice. I don't understand."
"Differential," the robot had said, "depends on environment as much ason heredity. Though naturally Ivan wouldn't have had the Tsardomenvironment without his particular heredity."
Martin sucked in his breath sharply. Environment does make a difference.No doubt Ivan IV had been a fearful coward, but heredity plusenvironment had given Ivan the one great weapon that had enabled him tokeep his cowardice a recessive trait.
Ivan the Terrible had been Tsar of all the Russias.
Give a coward a gun, and, while he doesn't stop being a coward, it won'tshow in the same way. He may act like a violent, aggressive tyrantinstead. That, of course, was why Ivan had been ecologicallysuccessful--in his specialized environment. He'd never run up againstmany stresses that brought his dominant trait to the fore. LikeDisraeli, he had been able to control his environment so that suchstresses were practically eliminated.
Martin turned green.
Then he remembered Erika. Could he get Erika to keep St. Cyr busy,somehow, while he got his contract release from Watt? As long as hecould avoid crises, he could keep his nerve from crumbling, but--_therewere assassins everywhere_!
Erika was on her way to the lot by now. Martin swallowed.
He would meet her outside the studio. The broom-closet wasn't safe. Hecould be trapped there like a rat--
"Nonsense," Martin told himself with shivering firmness. "This isn't me.All I have to do is get a g-grip on m-myself. Come, now. Buck up._Toujours l'audace!_"
But he went out of his office and downstairs very softly and cautiously.After all, one never knew. And when every man's hand was against one....
Quaking, the character-matrix of Ivan the Terrible stole toward a studiogate.
* * * * *
The taxi drove rapidly toward Bel-Air.
"But what were you doing up that tree?" Erika demanded.
Martin shook violently.
"A werewolf," he chattered. "And a vampire and a ghoul and--I _saw_them, I tell you. There I was at the studio gate, and they all came atme in a mob."
"But they were just coming back from dinner," Erika said. "You knowSummit's doing night shooting on _Abbott and Costello Meet Everybody_.Karloff wouldn't hurt a fly."
"I kept telling myself that," Martin said dully, "but I was out of mymind with guilt and fear. You see, I'm an abominable monster. But it'snot my fault. It's environmental. I grew up in brutal and degradingconditions--oh, look!" He pointed toward a traffic cop ahead. "Thepolice! Traitors even in the palace guards!"
"Lady, is that guy nuts?" the cabbie demanded.
"Mad or sane, I am Nicholas Martin," Martin announced, with an abruptvolte face. He tried to stand up commandingly, bumped his head, screamed"_Assassins!_" and burrowed into a corner of the seat, panting horribly.
Erika gave him a thoughtful, worried look.
"Nick," she said, "How much have you had to drink? What's wrong?"
Martin shut his eyes and lay back against the cushions.
"Let me have a few minutes, Erika," he pleaded. "I'll be all right assoon as I recover from stress. It's only when I'm under stress thatIvan--"
"You can accept your contract release from Watt, can't you? Surelyyou'll be able to manage that."
"Of course," Martin said with feeble bravery. He thought it over andreconsidered. "If I can hold your hand," he suggested, taking nochances.
This disgusted Erika so much that for two miles there was no moreconversation within the cab.
Erika had been thinking her own thoughts.
"You've certainly changed since this morning," she observed."Threatening to make love to me, of all things. As if I'd stand for it.I'd like to see you try." There was a pause. Erika slid her eyessidewise toward Martin. "I said I'd like to see you try," she repeated.
"Oh, you would, would you?" Martin said with hollow valor. He paused.Oddly enough his tongue, hitherto frozen stiff on one particular subjectin Erika's presence, was now thoroughly loosened. Martin wasted no timeon theory. Seizing his chance before a new stress might unexpectedlyarise, he instantly poured out his heart to Erika, who visibly softened.
"But why didn't you ever say so before?" she asked.
"I can't imagine," Martin said. "Then you'll marry me?"
"But why were you acting so--"
"Will you marry me?"
"Yes," Erika said, and there was a pause. Martin moistened his lips,discovering that somehow he and Erika had moved close together. He wasabout to seal the bargain in the customary manner when a sudden thoughtstruck him and made him draw back with a little start.
Erika opened her eyes.
"Ah--" said Martin. "Um. I just happened to remember. There's a bad fluepidemic in Chicago. Epidemics spread like wildfire, you know. Why, itcould be in Hollywood by now--especially with the prevailing westerlywinds."
"I'm damned if I'm going to be proposed to and not kissed," Erika saidin a somewhat irritated tone. "You kiss me!"
"But I might give you bubonic plague," Martin said nervously. "Kissingspreads germs. It's a well-known fact."
"Nick!"
"Well--I don't know--when did you last have a cold?"
Erika pulled away from him and went to sit in the other corner.
"Ah," Martin said, after a long silence. "Erika?"
"Don't talk to me, you miserable man," Erika said. "You monster, you."
"I can't help it," Martin cried wildly. "I'll be a coward for twelvehours. It's not my fault. After eight tomorrow morning I'll--I'll walkinto a lion-cage if you want, but tonight I'm as yellow as Ivan theTerrible! At least let me tell you what's been happening."
Erika said nothing. Martin instantly plunged into his long
andimprobable tale.
"I don't believe a word of it," Erika said, when he had finished. Sheshook her head sharply. "Just the same, I'm still your agent, and yourcareer's still my responsibility. The first and only thing we have to dois get your contract release from Tolliver Watt. And that's _all_ we'regoing to consider right now, do you hear?"
"But St. Cyr--"
"I'll do all the talking. You won't have to say a word. If St. Cyr