“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 outshout 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?”
“Because my environment hauled back and took a poke at my jaw,” Martin said shortly.
“Then you provoked it,” ENIAC countered. “A crisis—a situation of stress—always brings a man’s dominant trait to the fore, and Disraeli was dominantly courageous. Under stress, his courage became insolence. But he was intelligent enough to arrange his environment so insolence would be countered on the semantic level. Mixo-Lydia, eh? I place it vaguely, some billions of years ago, when it was inhabited by giant white apes. Or—oh, now I remember. It’s an encysted medieval survival, isn’t it?”
Martin nodded.
“So is this movie studio,” the robot said. “Your trouble is that you’ve run up against somebody who’s got a better optimum ecological adjustment than you have. That’s it. This studio environment is just emerging from medievalism, so it can easily slip back into that plenum when an optimum medievalist exerts pressure. Such types caused the Dark Ages. Well, you’d better change your environment to a neo-technological one, where the Disraeli matrix can be successfully pro-survival. In your era, only a few archaic social-encystments like this studio are feudalistic, so go somewhere else. It takes a feudalist to match a feudalist.”
“But I can’t go somewhere else,” Martin complained. “Not without my contract release. I was supposed to pick it up tonight, but St. Cyr found out what was happening, and he’ll throw a monkey-wrench in the works if he has to knock me out again to do it. I’m due at Watt’s place now, but St. Cyr’s already there—”
“Spare me the trivia,” the robot said, raising his hand. “As for this St. Cyr, if he’s a medieval
