The Ego Machine

'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 made 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 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?'

'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!'

* * *

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