“You’re not going to like this,” the robot said dazedly, sometime later. “Ivan won’t do at … oh, you’ve got me all confused. You’ll have to eyeprint a -” He began to pull out of his sack the helmet and the quarter-mile of red ribbon.
“To tie up my bonny gray brain,” Martin said, drunk with his own rhetoric. “Put it on my head. That’s right. Ivan the Terrible, remember. I’ll fix St. Cyr’s Mixo-Lydian wagon.”
“Differential depends on environment as much as on heredity,” the robot muttered, clapping the helmet on Martin’s head. “Though naturally Ivan wouldn’t have had the Tsardom environment without his particular heredity, involving Helena Glinska - there!” He removed the helmet.
“But nothing’s happening,” Martin said. “I don’t feel any different.”
“It’ll take a few moments. This isn’t your basic character-pattern, remember, as Disraeli’s was. Enjoy yourself while you can. You’ll get the Ivan-effect soon enough.” He shouldered the sack and headed uncertainly for the door.
“Wait,” Martin said uneasily. “Are you sure -”
“Be quiet. I forgot something - some formality - now I’m all confused. Well, I’ll think of it later, or earlier, as the case may be. I’ll see you in twelve hours - I hope.”
The robot departed. Martin shook his head tentatively from side to side. Then he got up and followed ENIAC to the door. But there was no sign of the robot, except for a diminishing whirlwind of dust in the middle of the corridor.
Something began to happen in Martin’s brain …
Behind him, the telephone rang.
Martin heard himself gasp with pure terror. With a sudden, impossible, terrifying, absolute certainty he knew who was telephoning.
Assassins!
“Yes, Mr. Martin,” said Tolliver Watt’s butler to the telephone. “Miss Ashby is here. She is with Mr. Watt and Mr. St. Cyr at the moment, but I will give her your message. You are detained. And she is to call for you - where?”
“The broom-closet on the second floor of the Writers’ Building,” Martin said in a quavering voice. “It’s the only one near a telephone with a long enough cord so I could take the phone in here with me. But I’m not at all certain that I’m safe. I don’t like the looks of that broom on my left.”
“Sir?”
“Are you sure you’re Tolliver Watt’s butler?” Martin demanded nervously.
“Quite sure, Mr. - eh - Mr. Martin.”
“I am Mr. Martin,” cried Martin with terrified defiance. “By all the laws of God and man, Mr. Martin I am and Mr. Martin I will remain, in spite of all attempts by rebellious dogs to depose me from my rightful place.”
“Yes, sir. The broom-closet you say, sir?”
“The broom-closet. Immediately. But swear not to tell another soul, no matter 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. I have enemies.”
There was a click. Martin replaced his own receiver and furtively surveyed the broom-closet. He told himself that this was ridiculous. There was nothing to be afraid of, was there? True, the broom-closet’s narrow walls were closing in upon him alarmingly, while the ceiling descended …
Panic-stricken, Martin emerged from the closet, took a long breath, and threw 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 the staircase, but midway agoraphobia overcame him, and his nerve broke.
He ducked into his own office and sweated quietly in the dark until he had mustered up enough courage to turn on a lamp.
The Encyclopaedia Britannica, in its glass-fronted cabinet, caught his eye. With noiseless haste, Martin secured ITALY to LORD and opened the volume at his desk. Something, obviously, was very, very wrong. The robot 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 arrant coward. Or maybe the Mad Tsar of Russia had really been called Ivan the Terrified. Martin flipped the rustling pages nervously. Ivan, Ivan - here it was.
Son of Helena Glinska … married Anastasia Zakharina-Koshkina … private life unspeakably abominable … memory astonishing, energy indefatigable, ungovernable fury - great natural ability, political foresight, anticipated the ideals of Peter the Great -
Martin shook his head.
Then he caught his breath at the next line.
Ivan had lived in an atmosphere of apprehension, imagining that every man’s hand was against him.
“Just like me,” Martin murmured. “But - but there was more to Ivan than just cowardice. I don’t understand.”
“Differential,” the robot had said, “depends on environment as much as on heredity. Though naturally Ivan wouldn’t have had the Tsardom environment 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 plus environment had given Ivan the one great weapon that had enabled him to keep 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’t show in the same way. He may act like a violent, aggressive tyrant instead. That, of course, was why Ivan had been ecologically successful - in his specialized environment. He’d never run up against many stresses that brought his dominant trait to the fore. Like Disraeli, he had been able to control his environment so that such stresses 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 he could avoid crises, he could keep his nerve from crumbling, but - there were 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. He could 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 studio gate.
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 at me in a mob.”
“But they were just coming back from dinner,” Erika said. “You know Summit’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 was out of my mind with guilt and fear. You see, I’m an abominable monster. But it’s not my fault. It’s environ mental. I grew up in brutal and degrading conditions - oh, look!” He pointed toward a traffic cop ahead. “The police! 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 abrupt volte 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 as soon as I recover from stress. It’s only when I’m under stress that Ivan -”
“You can accept your contract release from Watt, can’t you? Surely you’ll be able to manage that.”
“Of course,” Martin said with feeble bravery. He thought it over and reconsidered. “If I can hold your hand,” he suggested, taking no chances.
This disgusted Erika so much that for two miles there was no more conversation 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 eyes sidewise 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 subject in Erika’s presence, was now thoroughly loosened. Martin wasted no time on theory. Seizing his chance before a new stress might unexpectedly arise, 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 was about to seal the bargain in the customary manner when a sudden thought struck 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 fib epidemic in Chicago. Epidemics spread like wildfire, you know. Why, it could be in Hollywood by now - especially with the prevailing westerly winds.”
“I’m damned if I’m going to be proposed to and not kissed,” Erika said in a somewhat irritated tone. “You kiss me!”
“But I might give you bubonic plague,” Martin said nervously. “Kissing spreads 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 twelve hours. It’s not my fault. After eight tomorrow morning I’ll - I’ll walk into a lion-cage if you want, but tonight I’m as yellow as Ivan the Terrible! At least let me tell you what’s been happening.”
Erika said nothing. Martin instantly plunged into his long and improbable tale.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” Erika said, when he had finished. She shook her head sharply. “Just the same, I’m still your agent, and your career’s still my responsibility. The first and only thing we have to do is get your contract release from Tolliver Watt. And that’s all we’re going 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 tries to bully you, I’ll handle him. But you’ve got to be there with me, or St. 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 as hell break off that engagement.”
“Heads will roll for this,” Martin said ominously.
“By mutual consent, agree to terminate … yes,” Watt said, affixing his name 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’m certain.”
“Did he?” Erika asked, rather wildly. She too, was wondering how Martin had managed to vanish so miraculously from her side. Perhaps he had crept with lightning rapidity under the carpet. She forced her mind from the thought and reached for the contract release Watt was folding.
“Wait,” St. Cyr said, his lower lip jutting. “What about a clause giving us 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 nodded obediently.
“It’s going to have an all-male cast,” Erika said hastily. “And we’re discussing 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 an artist?” He waved a vast, hairy fist in the air. “Now I must break in a new writer, which is a great waste. Within a fortnight Martin would have been a St. Cyr writer. In fact, it is still possible.”
“I’m afraid not, Raoul,” Watt said resignedly. “You really shouldn’t have 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 you hiding behind those curtains for?”
Every eye was turned toward the window draperies, just in time to see the white, terrified face of Nicholas Martin flip out of sight like a scared chipmunk’s. Erika, her heart dropping, said hastily, “Oh, that isn’t Nick. It doesn’t look a bit like him. You make a mistake, DeeDee.”
“Did I?” DeeDee asked, perfectly willing to agree.
“Certainly,” Erika said, reaching for the contract release in Watt’s hand. “Now if you’ll just let me have this, I’ll -”
“Stop!” cried St. Cyr in a bull’s bellow. Head sunk between his heavy shoulders, 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 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 time, 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?”
“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 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 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 in Mixo-Lydia. In fact, you do 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!”
Ther
e 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 cleanshaven. 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 DeeDee with me?” St. Cyr cried, turning toward Watt. “He will sign!” And, reaching into an inner 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 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 -”
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.
Return to Otherness Page 18