“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!”
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 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.
“Ah, there you are,” the robot said. “I’ve been searching all over space-time 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.”
“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 with a 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 from Watt. All you have to do is put that helmet on my head and change me back 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 on you. 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 remembered something.
He faced the robot.
“WAIT,” he said. “You don’t understand. I can’t eyeprint that thing. It won’t work on me. Don’t you realize that? It’s supposed to take the eyeprint—”
“—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’t control the reflex of blinking. I’ve got a coward’s synapses. And they’d force me to shut my eyes tight the second that gimmick got too close to them.”
“Hold them open,” the robot suggested. “With your fingers.”
“My fingers have reflexes too,” Martin argued, moving toward a sideboard. “There’s only one answer. I’ve got to get drunk. If I’m half stupefied with liquor, my reflexes will be so slow I won’t be able to shut my eyes. And don’t try to use force, either. If I dropped dead with fear, 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. But his 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. “In fact, it’s beginning to work already. See? I’m coöperating.”
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 see it all. You’ve put poison in it. So that’s your plan, is it? Well, I won’t touch another drop, and now you’ll never get my eyeprint. I’m no fool.”
“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 the growing suspicion that the drink might really be toxic.
“You swallow that drink,” ENIAC commanded, his voice beginning to quiver slightly. “It’s perfectly harmless.”
“Then prove it!” Martin said cunningly. “Would you be willing to switch glasses? 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’ve got 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’ve got you trapped, you assassin. There’s your brew.” He pointed to a floor-lamp. “Do you dare to drink with me now, in your electrical fashion, 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 prove your whiskey’s harmless—so you’ll keep on drinking till your reflexes slow down, see?”
“Well,” Martin began uncertainly, but the unscrupulous robot unscrewed a bulb from the floor lamp, pulled the switch, and inserted his finger into the empty socket, which caused a crackling flash. “There,” the robot said. “It isn’t poisoned, see?”
“You’re not swallowing it,” Martin said suspiciously. “You’re holding it in your mouth—I mean your finger.”
ENIAC again probed the socket.
“Well, all right, perhaps,” Martin said, in a doubtful fashion. “But I’m not 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 eyeprint that gimmick of yours—or else I stop drinking. But does sticking your finger in that lamp really prove my liquor isn’t poisoned? I can’t quite—”
“Of course it does,” the robot said quickly. “I’ll prove it. I’ll do it again . . . f(t). Powerful DC, isn’t it? Certainly it proves it. Keep drinking, 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 a singularly loose smile on its metallic face.
“Best fermented mammoth’s milk I ever tasted,” Martin agreed, lifting his tenth glass of soda-water. He felt slightly queasy and wondered if he 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 very well so far. Voltage, he recalled, increased the frequency of the robot’s thought-patterns and disorganized ENIAC’s memory—which was being proved before his eyes. But the crux of his plan was yet to come . . .
“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. “You must be Mammoth-Slayer.”
“That’s it!” Martin cried. “Have another jolt. What about giving me the treatment now?”
“What treatment?”
Martin looked impatient. “You said you were going to impose the character-matrix of Mammoth-Slayer on my mind. You said that would insure my optimum ecological adjustment in this temporal phase, and nothing 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’s name?”
“The Great Hairy One,” Martin replied, at which the robot grated its hand across its gleaming forehead.
“Have one more jolt,” Martin suggested. “Now take out the ecologizer and put it on my head.”
“Like this?” ENIAC asked, obeying. “I keep feeling I’ve forgotten something 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 Hairy One.”
“Well—all right,” ENIAC said dizzily. The red ribbons swirled. There was a flash from the helmet. “There,” the robot said. “It’s done. It may take a few minutes to begin functioning, but then for twelve hours you’ll—wait! Where are you going?”
But Martin had already departed.
The robot stuffed the helmet and the quarter-mile of red ribbon back for the last time. He lurched to the floor-lamp, muttering something about one 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 stand like that! You frighten me!”
Everyone in the room looked up abruptly at her cry, and so were just in time to see a horrifying change take place in Martin’s shape. It was an illusion, of course, but an alarming one. His knees slowly bent until he was half-crouching, his shoulders slumped as though bowed by the weight of enormous back and shoulder muscles, and his arms swung forward until their knuckles hung perilously near the floor.
Nicholas Martin had at last achieved a personality whose ecological norm would put him on a level with Raoul St. Cyr.
“Nick!” Erika quavered.
Slowly Martin’s jaw protruded till his lower teeth were hideously visible. Gradually his eyelids dropped until he was peering up out of tiny, wicked sockets. Then, slowly, a perfectly shocking grin broadened Mr. Martin’s mouth.
“Erika,” he said throatily. “Mine!”
And with that, he shambled forward, seized the horrified girl in his arms, and bit her on the ear.
“Oh, Nick,” Erika murmured, closing her eyes. “Why didn’t you ever—no, no, no! Nick! Stop it! The contract release. We’ve got to—Nick, what are you doing?” She snatched at Martin’s departing form, but too late.
For all his ungainly and unpleasant gait, Martin covered ground fast. Almost instantly he was clambering over Watt’s desk as the most direct route to that startled tycoon. DeeDee looked on, a little surprised. St. Cyr lunged forward.
“In Mixo-Lydia—” he began. “Ha! So!” He picked up Martin and threw him across the room.
“Oh, you beast,” Erika cried, and flung herself upon the director, beating at his brawny chest. On second thought, she used her shoes on his shins with more effect. St. Cyr, no gentleman, turned her around, pinioned her arms behind her, and glanced up at Watt’s alarmed cry.
“Martin! What are you doing?”
There was reason for his inquiry. Apparently unhurt by St. Cyr’s toss, Martin had hit the floor, rolled over and over like a ball, knocked down a floor-lamp with a crash, and uncurled, with an unpleasant expression on his face. He rose crouching, bandy-legged, his arms swinging low, a snarl curling his lips.
“You take my mate?” the pithecanthropic Mr. Martin inquired throatily, rapidly losing all touch with the twentieth century. It was a rhetorical question. He picked up the lamp-standard—he did not have to bend to do it—tore off the silk shade as he would have peeled foliage from a tree-limb, and balanced the weapon in his hand. Then he moved forward, carrying the lamp-standard like a spear.
“I,” said Martin, “kill.”
He then endeavored, with the most admirable single-heartedness, to carry out his expressed intention. The first thrust of the blunt, improvised spear rammed into St. Cyr’s solar plexus and drove him back against the wall with a booming thud. This seemed to be what Martin wanted. Keeping one end of his spear pressed into the director’s belly, he crouched lower, dug his toes into the rug, and did his very best to drill a hole in St. Cyr.
“Stop it!” cried Watt, flinging himself into the conflict. Ancient reflexes took over. Martin’s arm shot out. Watt shot off in the opposite direction.
The lamp broke.
Martin looked pensively at the pieces, tentatively began to bite one, changed his mind, and looked at St. Cyr instead. The gasping director, mouthing threats, curses and objections, drew himself up, and shook a huge fist at Martin.
“I,” he announced, “shall kill you with my bare hands. Then I go over to MGM with DeeDee. In Mixo-Lydia—”
Martin lifted his own fists toward his face. He regarded them. He unclenched them slowly, while a terrible grin spread across his face. And then, with every tooth showing, and with the hungry gleam of a mad tiger in his tiny little eyes, he lifted his gaze to St. Cyr’s throat.
Mammoth-Slayer was not the son of the Great Hairy One f
or nothing.
MARTIN sprang.
So did St. Cyr—in another direction, screaming with sudden terror. For, after all, he was only a medievalist. The feudal man is far more civilized than the so-called man of Mammoth-Slayer’s primordially direct era, and as a man recoils from a small but murderous wildcat, so St. Cyr fled in sudden civilized horror from an attacker who was, literally, afraid of nothing.
He sprang through the window and, shrieking, vanished into the night.
Martin was taken by surprise. When Mammoth-Slayer leaped at an enemy, the enemy leaped at him too, and so Martin’s head slammed against the wall with disconcerting force. Dimly he heard diminishing, terrified cries. Laboriously he crawled to his feet and set back against the wall, snarling, quite ready . . .
“Nick!” Erika’s voice called. “Nick, it’s me! Stop it! Stop it! DeeDee—”
“Ugh?” Martin said thickly, shaking his head. “Kill.” He growled softly, blinking through red-rimmed little eyes at the scene around him. It swam back slowly into focus. Erika was struggling with DeeDee near the window.
“You let me go,” DeeDee cried. “Where Raoul goes, I go.”
“DeeDee!” pleaded a new voice. Martin glanced aside to see Tolliver Watt crumpled in a corner, a crushed lamp-shade half obscuring his face.
With a violent effort Martin straightened up. Walking upright seemed unnatural, somehow, but it helped submerge Mammoth-Slayer’s worst instincts. Besides, with St. Cyr gone, stresses were slowly subsiding, so that Mammoth-Slayer’s dominant trait was receding from the active foreground.
Martin tested his tongue cautiously, relieved to find he was still capable of human speech.
“Uh,” he said. “Arrgh . . . ah. Watt.”
Watt blinked at him anxiously through the lamp-shade.
“Urgh . . . Ur—release,” Martin said, with a violent effort. “Contract release. Gimme.”
Watt had courage. He crawled to his feet, removing the lamp-shade.
“Contract release!” he snapped. “You madman! Don’t you realize what you’ve done? DeeDee’s walking out on me. DeeDee, don’t go. We will bring Raoul back—”
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