The Ego Machine

'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 Encyclopedia 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 I was out of my mind with guilt and fear. You see, I'm an abominable monster. But it's not my fault. It's environmental. 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 flu 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?'