The Ego Machine

'Your genius has gone long enough unrecognized,' Martin said hastily, letting admiration ring in his golden voice. 'You assume that St. Cyr is your equal. You give him your own credit titles. Yet in your own mind you must have known that half the credit for his pictures is yours. Was Phidias non-commercial? Was Michaelangelo? Commercialism is simply a label for functionalism, and all great artists produce functional art. The trivial details of Rubens' masterpieces were filled in by assistants, were they not? But Rubens got the credit, not his hirelings. The proof of the pudding's obvious. Why?' Cunningly gauging his listener, Martin here broke off.

'Why?' Watt asked.

'Sit down,' Martin urged. 'I'll tell you why. St. Cyr's pictures make money, but you're responsible for their molding into the ideal form, impressing your character-matrix upon everything and everyone at Summit Studios….'

* * *

Slowly Watt sank into his chair. About his ears the hypnotic bursts of Disraelian rhodomontade thundered compellingly. For Martin had the man hooked. With unerring aim he had at the first try discovered Watt's weakness—the uncomfortable feeling in a professionally arty town that money-making is a basically contemptible business. Disraeli had handled tougher problems in his day. He had swayed Parliaments.

Watt swayed, tottered—and fell. It took about ten minutes, all in all. By the end of that time, dizzy with eloquent praise of his economic ability, Watt had realized that while St. Cyr might be an artistic genius, he had no business interfering in the plans of an economic genius. Nobody told Watt what to do when economics were concerned.

'You have the broad vision that can balance all possibilities and show the right path with perfect clarity,' Martin said glibly. 'Very well. You wish Eden. You feel—do you not? — &that I am unsuitable material. Only geniuses can change their plans with instantaneous speed…. When will my contract release be ready?'

'What?' said Watt, in a swimming, glorious daze. 'Oh. Of course. Hm-m. Your contract release. Well, now —'

'St. Cyr would stubbornly cling to past errors until Summit goes broke,' Martin pointed out. 'Only a genius like Tolliver Watt strikes when the iron is hot, when he sees a chance to exchange failure for success, a Martin for an Eden.'

'Hm-m,' Watt said. 'Yes. Very well, then.' His long face grew shrewd. 'Very, well, you get your release— after I've signed Eden.'

'There you put your finger on the heart of the matter,' Martin approved, after a very brief moment of somewhat dashed thought. 'Miss Eden is still undecided. If you left the transaction to somebody like St. Cyr, say, it would be botched. Erika, you have your car here? How quickly could you drive Tolliver Watt to Laguna? He's the only person with the skill to handle this situation.'

'What situa—oh, yes. Of course, Nick. We could start right away.'

'But—' Watt said.

The Disraeli-matrix swept on into oratorical periods that made the walls ring. The golden tongue played arpeggios with logic.

'I see,' the dazed Watt murmured, allowing himself to be shepherded toward the door. 'Yes, yes, of course. Then—suppose you drop over to my place tonight, Martin. After I get the Eden signature, I'll have your release prepared. Hm-m. Functional genius….' His voice fell to a low, crooning mutter, and he moved quietly out of the door.

Martin laid a hand on Erika's arm as she followed him.

'Wait a second,' he said. 'Keep him away from the studio until we get the release. St. Cyr can still out-shout me any time. But he's hooked. We—'

'Nick,' Erika said, looking searchingly into his face. 'What's happened?'

'Tell you tonight,' Martin said hastily, hearing a distant bellow that might be the voice of St. Cyr approaching. 'When I have time I'm going to sweep you off your feet. Did you know that I've worshipped you from afar all my life? But right now, get Watt out of the way. Hurry!'

Erika cast a glance of amazed bewilderment at him as he thrust her out of the door. Martin thought there was a certain element of pleasure in the surprise.

* * *

'Where is Tolliver?' The loud, annoyed roar of St. Cyr made Martin wince. The director was displeased, it appeared, because only in Costumes could a pair of trousers be found large enough to fit him. He took it as a personal affront. 'What have you done with Tolliver?' he bellowed.

'Louder, please,' Martin said insolently. 'I can't hear you.'

'DeeDee,' St. Cyr shouted, whirling toward the lovely star, who hadn't stirred from her rapturous admiration of DeeDee in technicolor overhead. 'Where is Tolliver?'

Martin started. He had quite forgotten DeeDee.

'You don't know, do you, DeeDee?' he prompted quickly.

'Shut up,' St. Cyr snapped. 'Answer me, you—' He added a brisk polysyllable in Mixo-Lydian, with the desired effect. DeeDee wrinkled her flawless brow.

'Tolliver went away, I think. I've got it mixed up with the picture. He went home to meet Nick Martin, didn't he?'

'See?' Martin interrupted, relieved. 'No use expecting DeeDee to—'

'But Martin is here!' St. Cyr shouted. 'Think, think!'

'Was the contract release in the rushes?' DeeDee asked vaguely.

'A contract release?' St. Cyr roared. 'What is this? Never will I permit it, never, never, never! DeeDee, answer me—where has Watt gone?'

'He went somewhere with that agent,' DeeDee said. 'Or was that in the rushes too?'

'But where, where, where?'

'They went to Atlantis,' DeeDee announced with an air of faint triumph.

'No!' shouted St. Cyr. 'That was the picture! The mermaid came from Atlantis, not Watt!'

'Tolliver didn't say he was coming from Atlantis,' DeeDee murmured, unruffled. 'He said he was going to Atlantis. Then he was going to meet Nick Martin at his house tonight and give him his contract release.'

'When?' St. Cyr demanded furiously. 'Think, DeeDee? What time did—'

'DeeDee,' Martin said, stepping forward with suave confidence, 'you can't remember a thing, can you?' But DeeDee was too subnormal to react even to a Disraeli-matrix. She merely smiled placidly at him.

'Out of my way, you writer!' roared St. Cyr, advancing upon Martin. 'You will get no contract release! You do not waste St. Cyr's time and get away with it! This I will not endure. I fix you as I fixed Ed Cassidy!'

Martin drew himself up and froze St. Cyr with an insolent smile. His hand toyed with an imaginary monocle. Golden periods were hanging at the end of his tongue. There only remained to hypnotize St. Cyr as he had hypnotized Watt. He drew a deep breath to unlease the floods of his eloquence—

And St. Cyr, also too subhuman to be impressed by urbanity, hit Martin a clout on the jaw.

It could never have happened in the British Parliament.

III

When the robot walked into Martin's office that evening, he, or it, went directly to the desk, unscrewed the bulb from the lamp, pressed the switch, and stuck his finger into the socket. There was a crackling flash. ENIAC withdrew his finger and shook his metallic head violently.

'I needed that,' he sighed. 'I've been on the go all day, by the Kaldekooz time-scale. Paleolithic, Neolithic, Technological—I don't even know what time it is. Well, how's your ecological adjustment getting on?'

Martin rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

'Badly,' he said. 'Tell me, did Disraeli, as Prime Minister, ever have any dealings with a country called Mixo- Lydia?'

'I have no idea,' said the robot. 'Why do you ask?'