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"It's a lie," Martin said feebly, making a desperate attempt to conceal his
"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 grin widened 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 were drunk. Now
I see it all.
Valorous with pots, like they say."
"Nonsense," Martin said, rallying his courage by a glance at Erika. "Who say?
Nobody but you would say a thing like that. Now what's this all about?"
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"What were you doing behind that curtain?" Watt asked.
"/ 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 the whole lot of you
conceal yourselves behind curtains in a library, like-like conspirators?" The
word was unfortunately chosen. A panicky light flashed into Martin's eyes.
"Yes, conspirators," he went on nervously. "You think I don't know, eh? Well,
I do. You're all assassins, plotting and planning. So this is your
headquarters, is it? All night your hired dogs have been at my heels, driving
me like a wounded caribou to-"
"We've got to be going," Erika said desperately. "There's just time to catch
the next carib-the next plane east." She reached for the contract release, but
Watt suddenly put it in his pocket. He
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C.txt turned his chair toward 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's air of
bravado with an experienced eye. "Also, there is to be no question of a charge
of assault, for if there is I will beat you. So it is hi Mixo-Lydia. In fact,
you dp not even want a release from your contract, Martin. It is all a
mistake. I will turn you into a St. Cyr writer, and all will be well. So. Now
you will ask Tolliver to tear up that 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 did the
unhappy Erika, torn between her responsibility as Martin's agent and her
disgust at the man's abject cowardice. DeeDee watched too, her eyes very wide
and a cheerful smile upon her handsome face. But the battle was obviously
between Martin and Raoul St. Cyr.
Martin drew himself up desperately. Now or never he must force himself to be
truly Terrible.
Already he had a troubled expression, just like Ivan. He strove to look
sinister too. An enigmatic smile played around his lips. For an instant he
resembled the Mad Tsar of Russia, except, of course, that he was clean-shaven.
With contemptuous, regal power Martin stared down the Mixo-
Lydian. "
"You will tear up that release and sign an agreement giving us option on your
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 eaten alive
by dogs?"
"I don't know, Raoul," Watt said. "Let's try to get this settled even if-"
"Do you want me to go over to Metro and take Dee-Dee with me?" St. Cyr cried,
turning toward Watt.
"He
" sign!" And, reaching into an inner pocket for a pen, the burly dieector
will
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 these ominous
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 get that
contract release from you before I leave this room, Tolliver Watt, and I warn
you, St. Cyr, if you-"
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But by then Martin was five rooms away, and the voice faded. He darted on,
hopelessly trying to make himself slow down and return to the scene of battle.
The pressure was too strong. Terror hurled him down a corridor, into another
room, and against a metallic object from which he rebounded, to find himself
sitting on the floor looking up at ENIAC Gamma the Ninety-Third.
"Ah, there you are," the robot said. "I've been searching all over space-tune
for you. You forgot to give me a waiver of responsibility when you talked me
into varying the experiment. The
Authorities would be in my gears if I didn't bring back an eyeprinted waiver
when a subject's scratched 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 to myself.
Everyone's trying to kill me. You're just in time. I can't wait twelve hours.
Change me back to myself, quick!"
"Oh, I'm through with you," the robot said callously. "You're no longer a
suitably unconditioned subject, after that last treatment you insisted on. I
should have got the waiver from you then, but you got me all confused with
Disraeli's oratory. Now here. Just hold this up to your left eye for twenty
seconds." He extended a flat, glittering little metal disk. "It's already
sensitized and filled out. It only needs your eyeprint. 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, and
you'll be yourself again.
Hold this up to your eye, now."
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