Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
THE EGO MACHINE
_by_ HENRY KUTTNER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Space Science Fiction
May 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Sidenote: When a slightly mad robot drunk on AC, wants you to join an
experiment in optimum ecology--don't do it! After all, who wants to
argue like Disraeli or live like Ivan the Terrible?]
I
Nicholas Martin looked up at the robot across the desk.
"I'm not going to ask what you want," he said, in a low, restrained
voice. "I already know. Just go away and tell St. Cyr I approve. Tell
him I think it's wonderful, putting a robot in the picture. We've had
everything else by now, except the Rockettes. But clearly a quiet little
play about Christmas among the Portuguese fishermen on the Florida coast
_must_ have a robot. Only, why not six robots? Tell him I suggest a
baker's dozen. Go away."
"Was your mother's name Helena Glinska?" the robot asked.
"It was not," Martin said.
"Ah, then she must have been the Great Hairy One," the robot murmured.
Martin took his feet off the desk and sat up slowly.
"It's quite all right," the robot said hastily. "You've been chosen for
an ecological experiment, that's all. But it won't hurt. Robots are
perfectly normal life forms where I come from, so you needn't--"
"Shut up," Martin said. "Robot indeed, you--you bit-player! This time
St. Cyr has gone too far." He began to shake slightly all over, with
some repressed but strong emotion. The intercom box on the desk caught
his eye, and he stabbed a finger at one of the switches. "Get me Miss
Ashby! Right away!"
"I'm so sorry," the robot said apologetically. "Have I made a mistake?
The threshold fluctuations in the neurons always upset my mnemonic norm
when I temporalize. Isn't this a crisis-point in your life?"
Martin breathed hard, which seemed to confirm the robot's assumption.
"Exactly," it said. "The ecological imbalance approaches a peak that may
destroy the life-form, unless ... mm-m. Now either you're about to be
stepped on by a mammoth, locked in an iron mask, assassinated by helots,
or--is this Sanskrit I'm speaking?" He shook his gleaming head. "Perhaps
I should have got off fifty years ago, but I thought--sorry. Good-bye,"
he added hastily as Martin raised an angry glare.
Then the robot lifted a finger to each corner of his naturally rigid
mouth, and moved his fingers horizontally in opposite directions, as
though sketching an apologetic smile.
"No, don't go away," Martin said. "I want you right here, where the
sight of you can refuel my rage in case it's needed. I wish to God I
could get mad and stay mad," he added plaintively, gazing at the
telephone.
"Are you sure your mother's name wasn't Helena Glinska?" the robot
asked. It pinched thumb and forefinger together between its nominal
brows, somehow giving the impression of a worried frown.
"Naturally I'm sure," Martin snapped.
"You aren't married yet, then? To Anastasia Zakharina-Koshkina?"
"Not yet or ever," Martin replied succinctly. The telephone rang. He
snatched it up.
* * * * *
"Hello, Nick," said Erika Ashby's calm voice. "Something wrong?"
Instantly the fires of rage went out of Martin's eyes, to be replaced by
a tender, rose-pink glow. For some years now he had given Erika, his
very competent agent, ten percent of his take. He had also longed
hopelessly to give her approximately a pound of flesh--the cardiac
muscle, to put it in cold, unromantic terms. Martin did not; he put it
in no terms at all, since whenever he tried to propose marriage to Erika
he was taken with such fits of modesty that he could only babble o'
green fields.
"Well," Erika repeated. "Something wrong?"
"Yes," Martin said, drawing a long breath. "Can St. Cyr make me marry
somebody named Anastasia Zakharina-Koshkina?"
"What a wonderful memory you have," the robot put in mournfully. "Mine
used to be, before I started temporalizing. But even radioactive neurons
won't stand--"
"Nominally you're still entitled to life, liberty, et cetera," Erika
said. "But I'm busy right now, Nick. Can't it wait till I see you?"
"When?"
"Didn't you get my message?" Erika demanded.
"Of course not," Martin said, angrily. "I've suspected for some time
that all my incoming calls have to be cleared by St. Cyr. Somebody might
try to smuggle in a word of hope, or possibly a file." His voice
brightened. "Planning a jailbreak?"
"Oh, this is outrageous," Erika said. "Some day St. Cyr's going to go
too far--"
"Not while he's got DeeDee behind him," Martin said gloomily. Summit
Studios would sooner have made a film promoting atheism than offend
their top box-office star, DeeDee Fleming. Even Tolliver Watt, who owned
Summit lock, stock and barrel, spent wakeful nights because St. Cyr
refused to let the lovely DeeDee sign a long-term contract.
"Nevertheless, Watt's no fool," Erika said. "I still think we could get
him to give you a contract release if we could make him realize what a
rotten investment you are. There isn't much time, though."
"Why not?"
"I told you--oh. Of course you don't know. He's leaving for Paris
tomorrow morning."
Martin moaned. "Then I'm doomed," he said. "They'll pick up my option
automatically next week and I'll never draw a free breath again. Erika,
do something!"
"I'm going to," Erika said. "That's exactly what I want to see you
about. Ah," she added suddenly, "now I understand why St. Cyr stopped my
message. He was afraid. Nick, do you know what we've got to do?"
"See Watt?" Nick hazarded unhappily. "But Erika--"
"See Watt _alone_," Erika amplified.
"Not if St. Cyr can help it," Nick reminded her.
"Exactly. Naturally St. Cyr doesn't want us to talk to Watt privately.
We might make him see reason. But this time, Nick, we've simply got to
manage it somehow. One of us is going to talk to Watt while the other
keeps St. Cyr at bay. Which do you choose?"
"Neither," Martin said promptly.
"Oh, Nick! I can't do the whole thing alone. Anybody'd think you were
afraid of St. Cyr."
"I _am_ afraid of St. Cyr," Martin said.
"Nonsense. What could he actually do to you?"
"He could terrorize me. He does it all the time. Erika, he says I'm
indoctrinating beautifully. Doesn't it make your blood run cold? Look at
all the other writers he's indoctrinated."
"I know. I saw one of them on Main Street last week, delving into
garbage cans. Do you want to end up that way? Then stand up for your
rights!"
"Ah," said the robot wisely, nodding. "Just as I thought. A
crisis-point."
"Shut up," Martin said. "No, not you, Erika. I'm sorry."
"So am I," Erika said tartly. "For a moment I thought you'd acquired a
backbone."
"If I were somebody like Hemingway--" Martin began in a miserable voice.
"Did you say Hemingway?" the robot inquired. "Is this the
Kinsey-Hemingway era? Then I must be right. You're Nicholas Martin, the
next subject. Martin, Martin? Let me see--oh yes, the Disraeli type,
that's it." He rubbed his forehead with a grating sound. "Oh, my poor
neuron thresholds! Now I remember."
* * * * *
"Nick, can you hear me?" Erika's voice inquired. "I'm coming over there
right away. Brace yourself. We're going to beard St. Cyr in his den and
convince Watt you'll never make a good screen-writer. Now--"
"But St. Cyr won't _ever_ admit that," Martin cried. "He doesn't know
the meaning of the word failure. He says so. He's going to make me into
a screen-writer or kill me."
"Remember what happened to Ed Cassidy?" Erika reminded him grimly. "St.
Cyr didn't make him into a screen-writer."
"True. Poor old Ed," Martin said, with a shiver.
"All right, then. I'm on my way. Anything else?"
"Yes!" Martin cried, drawing a deep breath. "Yes, there is! I love you
madly!"
But the words never got past his glottis. Opening and closing his mouth
noiselessly, the cowardly playwright finally clenched his teeth and
tried again. A faint, hopeless squeak vibrated the telephone's disk.
Martin let his shoulders slump hopelessly. It was clear he could never
propose to anybody, not even a harmless telephone.
"Did you say something?" Erika asked. "Well, good-bye then."
"Wait a minute," Martin said, his eyes suddenly falling once more upon
the robot. Speechless on one subject only, he went on rapidly, "I forgot
to tell you. Watt and the nest-fouling St. Cyr have just hired a mock-up
phony robot to play in _Angelina Noel_!"
But the line was dead.
"I'm not a phony," the robot said, hurt.
Martin fell back in his chair and stared at his guest with dull,
hopeless eyes. "Neither was King Kong," he remarked. "Don't start
feeding me some line St. Cyr's told you to pull. I know he's trying to
break my nerve. He'll probably do it, too. Look what he's done to my
play already. Why Fred Waring? I don't mind Fred Waring in his proper
place. There he's fine. But not in _Angelina Noel_. Not as the
Portuguese captain of a fishing boat manned by his entire band,
accompanied by Dan Dailey singing _Napoli_ to DeeDee Fleming in a
mermaid's tail--"
Self-stunned by this recapitulation, Martin put his arms on the desk,
his head in his hands, and to his horror found himself giggling. The
telephone rang. Martin groped for the instrument without rising from his
semi-recumbent position.
"Who?" he asked shakily. "_Who?_ St. Cyr--"
A hoarse bellow came over the wire. Martin sat bolt upright, seizing the
phone desperately with both hands.
"Listen!" he cried. "Will you let me finish what I'm going to say, just
for once? Putting a robot in _Angelina Noel_ is simply--"
"I do not hear what you say," roared a heavy voice. "Your idea stinks.
Whatever it is. Be at Theater One for yesterday's rushes! At once!"
"But wait--"
St. Cyr belched and hung up. Martin's strangling hands tightened briefly
on the telephone. But it was no use. The real strangle-hold was the one
St. Cyr had around Martin's throat, and it had been tightening now for
nearly thirteen weeks. Or had it been thirteen years? Looking backward,
Martin could scarcely believe that only a short time ago he had been a
free man, a successful Broadway playwright, the author of the hit play
_Angelina Noel_. Then had come St. Cyr....
A snob at heart, the director loved getting his clutches on hit plays
and name writers. Summit Studios, he had roared at Martin, would follow
the original play exactly and would give Martin the final okay on the
script, provided he signed a thirteen-week contract to help write the
screen treatment. This had seemed too good to be true--and was.
Martin's downfall lay partly in the fine print and partly in the fact
that Erika Ashby had been in the hospital with a bad attack of influenza
at the time. Buried in legal verbiage was a clause that bound Martin to
five years of servitude with Summit should they pick up his option. Next
week they would certainly do just that, unless justice prevailed.
* * * * *
"I think I need a drink," Martin said unsteadily. "Or several." He
glanced toward the robot. "I wonder if you'd mind getting me that bottle
of Scotch from the bar over there."
"But I am here to conduct an experiment in optimum ecology," said the
robot.
Martin closed his eyes. "Pour me a drink," he pleaded. "Please. Then put
the glass in my hand, will you? It's not much to ask. After all, we're
both human beings, aren't we?"
"Well, no," the robot said, placing a brimming glass in Martin's groping
fingers. Martin drank. Then he opened his eyes and blinked at the tall
highball glass in his hand. The robot had filled it to the brim with
Scotch. Martin turned a wondering gaze on his metallic companion.
"You must do a lot of drinking yourself," he said thoughtfully. "I
suppose tolerance can be built up. Go ahead. Help yourself. Take the
rest of the bottle."
The robot placed the tip of a finger above each eye and slid the fingers
upward, as though raising his eyebrows inquiringly.
"Go on, have a jolt," Martin urged. "Or don't you want to break bread
with me, under the circumstances?"
"How can I?" the robot asked. "I'm a robot." His voice sounded somewhat
wistful. "What happens?" he inquired. "Is it a lubricatory or a fueling
mechanism?"
Martin glanced at his brimming glass.
"Fueling," he said tersely. "High octane. You really believe in staying
in character, don't you? Why not--"
"Oh, the principle of irritation," the robot interrupted. "I see. Just
like fermented mammoth's milk."
Martin choked. "Have you ever drunk fermented mammoth's milk?" he
inquired.
"How could I?" the robot asked. "But I've seen it done." He drew a
straight line vertically upward between his invisible eyebrows, managing
to look wistful. "Of course my world is perfectly functional and
functionally perfect, but I can't help finding temporalizing a
fascina--" He broke off. "I'm wasting space-time. Ah. Now. Mr. Martin,
would you be willing to--"
"Oh, have a drink," Martin said. "I feel hospitable. Go ahead, indulge
me, will you? My pleasures are few. And I've got to go and be terrorized
in a minute, anyhow. If you can't get that mask off I'll send for a
straw. You can step out of character long enough for one jolt, can't
you?"
"I'd like to try it," the robot said pensively. "Ever since I noticed
the effect fermented mammoth's milk had on the boys, it's been on my
mind, rather. Quite easy for a human, of course. Technically it's simple
enough, I see now. The irritation just increases the frequency of the
brain's kappa waves, as with boosted voltage, but since electrical
voltage never existed in pre-robot times--"
"It did," Martin said, taking another drink. "I mean, it does. What do
you call that, a mammoth?" He indicated the desk lamp.
The robot's jaw dropped.
"That?" he asked in blank amazement. "Why--why then all those telephone
poles and dynamos and lighting-equipment I noticed in this era are
powered by electricity!"
"What did you think they were powered by?" Martin asked coldly.
"Slaves," the robot said, examining the lamp. He switched it on,
blinked, and then unscrewed the bulb. "Voltage, you say?"
"Don't be a fool," Martin said. "You're overplaying your part. I've got
to get going in a minute. Do you want a jolt or don't you?"
"Well," the robot said, "I don't want to seem unsociable. This _ought_
to work." So saying, he stuck his finger in the lamp-socket. There was a
brief, crackling flash. The robot withdrew his finger.
"_F(t)_--" he said, and swayed slightly. Then his fingers came up and
sketched a smile that seemed, somehow, to express delighted surprise.
"_Fff(t)!_" he said, and went on rather thickly, "_F(t)_ integral
between plus and minus infinity ... _a-sub-n_ to _e_...."
Martin's eyes opened wide with shocked horror. Whether a doctor or a
psychiatrist should be called in was debatable, but it was perfectly
evident that this was a case for the medical profession, and the sooner
the better. Perhaps the police, too. The bit-player in the robot suit
was clearly as mad as a hatter. Martin poised indecisively, waiting for
his lunatic guest either to drop dead or spring at his throat.
The robot appeared to be smacking his lips, with faint clicking sounds.
"Why, that's wonderful," he said. "AC, too."
"Y-you're not dead?" Martin inquired shakily.
"I'm not even alive," the robot murmured. "The way you'd understand it,
that is. Ah--thanks for the jolt."
* * * * *
Martin stared at the robot with the wildest dawning of surmise.
"Why--" he gasped. "Why--_you're a robot_!"
"Certainly I'm a robot," his guest said. "What slow minds you pre-robots
had. Mine's working like lightning now." He stole a drunkard's glance at
the desk-lamp. "_F(t)_--I mean, if you counted the kappa waves of my
radio-atomic brain now, you'd be amazed how the frequency's increased."
He paused thoughtfully. "_F(t)_," he added.
Moving quite slowly, like a man under water, Martin lifted his glass and
drank whiskey. Then, cautiously, he looked up at the robot again.
"_F(t)_--" he said, paused, shuddered, and drank again. That did it.
"I'm drunk," he said with an air of shaken relief. "That must be it. I
was almost beginning to believe--"
"Oh, nobody believes I'm a robot at first," the robot said. "You'll
notice I showed up in a movie lot, where I wouldn't arouse suspicion.
I'll appear to Ivan Vasilovich in an alchemist's lab, and he'll jump to
the conclusive I'm an automaton. Which, of course, I _am_. Then there's
a Uighur on my list--I'll appear to him in a shaman's hut and he'll
assume I'm a devil. A matter of ecologicologic."
"Then you're a devil?" Martin inquired, seizing on the only plausible
solution.
"No, no, no. I'm a robot. Don't you understand anything?"
"I don't even know who I am, now," Martin said. "For all I know, I'm a
faun and you're a human child. I don't think this Scotch is doing me as
much good as I'd--"
"Your name is Nicholas Martin," the robot said patiently. "And mine is
ENIAC."
"Eniac?"
"ENIAC," the robot corrected, capitalizing. "ENIAC Gamma the
Ninety-Third."
So saying, he unslung a sack from his metallic shoulder and began to
rummage out length upon length of what looked like red silk ribbon with
a curious metallic lustre. After approximately a quarter-mile of it had
appeared, a crystal football helmet emerged attached to its end. A
gleaming red-green stone was set on each side of the helmet.
"Just over the temporal lobes, you see," the robot explained, indicating
the jewels. "Now you just set it on your head, like this--"
"Oh no I don't," Martin said, withdrawing his head with the utmost
rapidity. "Neither do you, my friend. What's the idea? I don't like the
looks of that gimmick. I particularly don't like those two red garnets
on the sides. They look like eyes."
"Those are artificial eclogite," the robot assured him. "They simply
have a high dielectric constant. It's merely a matter of altering the
normal thresholds of the neuron memory-circuits. All thinking is based
on memory, you know. The strength of your associations--the emotional
indices of your memories--channel your actions and decisions, and the
ecologizer simply changes the voltage of your brain so the thresholds
are altered."
"Is that all it does?" Martin asked suspiciously.
"Well, now," the robot said with a slight air of evasion. "I didn't
intend to mention it, but since you ask--it also imposes the
master-matrix of your character type. But since that's the prototype of
your character in the first place, it will simply enable you to make the
most of your potential ability, hereditary and acquired. It will make
you react to your environment in the way that best assures your
survival."
"Not me, it won't," Martin said firmly. "Because you aren't going to put
that thing on my head."
The robot sketched a puzzled frown. "Oh," he said after a pause. "I
haven't explained yet, have I? It's very simple. Would you be willing to
take part in a valuable socio-cultural experiment for the benefit of all
mankind?"
"No," Martin said.
"But you don't know what it is yet," the robot said plaintively. "You'll
be the only one to refuse, after I've explained everything thoroughly.
By the way, can you understand me all right?"
Martin laughed hollowly. "Natch," he said.
"Good," the robot said, relieved. "That may be one trouble with my
memory. I had to record so many languages before I could temporalize.
Sanskrit's very simple, but medieval Russian's confusing, and as for
Uighur--however! The purpose of this experiment is to promote the most
successful pro-survival relationship between man and his environment.
Instant adaptation is what we're aiming at, and we hope to get it by
minimizing the differential between individual and environment. In other
words, the right reaction at the right time. Understand?"
"Of course not," Martin said. "What nonsense you talk."
"There are," the robot said rather wearily, "only a limited number of
character matrices possible, depending first on the arrangement of the
genes within the chromosomes, and later upon environmental additions.
Since environments tend to repeat--like societies, you know--an
organizational pattern isn't hard to lay out, along the Kaldekooz
time-scale. You follow me so far?"
"By the Kaldekooz time-scale, yes," Martin said.
"I was always lucid," the robot remarked a little vainly, nourishing a
swirl of red ribbon.
"Keep that thing away from me," Martin complained. "Drunk I may be, but
I have no intention of sticking my neck out that far."
"Of course you'll do it," the robot said firmly. "Nobody's ever refused
yet. And don't bicker with me or you'll get me confused and I'll have to
take another jolt of voltage. Then there's no telling how confused I'll
be. My memory gives me enough trouble when I temporalize. Time-travel
always raises the synaptic delay threshold, but the trouble is it's so
variable. That's why I got you mixed up with Ivan at first. But I don't
visit him till after I've seen you--I'm running the test
chronologically, and nineteen-fifty-two comes before fifteen-seventy, of
course."
"It doesn't," Martin said, tilting the glass to his lips. "Not even in
Hollywood does nineteen-fifty-two come before fifteen-seventy."
"I'm using the Kaldekooz time-scale," the robot explained. "But really
only for convenience. Now do you want the ideal ecological differential
or don't you? Because--" Here he flourished the red ribbon again, peered
into the helmet, looked narrowly at Martin, and shook his head.
"I'm sorry," the robot said. "I'm afraid this won't work. Your head's
too small. Not enough brain-room, I suppose. This helmet's for an eight
and a half head, and yours is much too--"
"My head _is_ eight and a half," Martin protested with dignity.
"Can't be," the robot said cunningly. "If it were, the helmet would fit,
and it doesn't. Too big."
"It does fit," Martin said.
"That's the trouble with arguing with pre-robot species," ENIAC said, as
to himself. "Low, brutish, unreasoning. No wonder, when their heads are
so small. Now Mr. Martin--" He spoke as though to a small, stupid,
stubborn child. "Try to understand. This helmet's size eight and a half.
Your head is unfortunately so very small that the helmet wouldn't fit--"
"Blast it!" cried the infuriated Martin, caution quite lost between
Scotch and annoyance. "It does fit! Look here!" Recklessly he snatched
the helmet and clapped it firmly on his head. "It fits perfectly!"
"I erred," the robot acknowledged, with such a gleam in his eye that
Martin, suddenly conscious of his rashness, jerked the helmet from his
head and dropped it on the desk. ENIAC quietly picked it up and put it
back into his sack, stuffing the red ribbon in after it with rapid
motions. Martin watched, baffled, until ENIAC had finished, gathered
together the mouth of the sack, swung it on his shoulder again, and
turned toward the door.
"Good-bye," the robot said. "And thank you."
"For what?" Martin demanded.
"For your cooperation," the robot said.
"I won't cooperate," Martin told him flatly. "It's no use. Whatever fool
treatment it is you're selling, I'm not going to--"
"Oh, you've already had the ecology treatment," ENIAC replied blandly.
"I'll be back tonight to renew the charge. It lasts only twelve hours."
"_What!_"
ENIAC moved his forefingers outward from the corners of his mouth,
sketching a polite smile. Then he stepped through the door and closed it
behind him.
Martin made a faint squealing sound, like a stuck but gagged pig.
_Something was happening inside his head._
II
Nicholas Martin felt like a man suddenly thrust under an ice-cold
shower. No, not cold--steaming hot. Perfumed, too. The wind that blew in
from the open window bore with it a frightful stench of gasoline,
sagebrush, paint, and--from the distant commissary--ham sandwiches.
"Drunk," he thought frantically. "I'm drunk--or crazy!" He sprang up and
spun around wildly; then catching sight of a crack in the hardwood floor
he tried to walk along it. "Because if I can walk a straight line," he
thought, "I'm not drunk. I'm only crazy...." It was not a very
comforting thought.
He could walk it, all right. He could walk a far straighter line than
the crack, which he saw now was microscopically jagged. He had, in fact,
never felt such a sense of location and equilibrium in his life. His
experiment carried him across the room to a wall-mirror, and as he
straightened to look into it, suddenly all confusion settled and ceased.
The violent sensory perceptions leveled off and returned to normal.
Everything was quiet. Everything was all right.
Martin met his own eyes in the mirror.
Everything was _not_ all right.
He was stone cold sober. The Scotch he had drunk might as well have been
spring-water. He leaned closer to the mirror, trying to stare through
his own eyes into the depths of his brain. For something extremely odd
was happening in there. All over his brain, tiny shutters were beginning
to move, some sliding up till only a narrow crack remained, through
which the beady little eyes of neurons could be seen peeping, some
sliding down with faint crashes, revealing the agile, spidery forms of
still other neurons scuttling for cover.
Altered thresholds, changing the yes-and-no reaction time of the
memory-circuits, with their key emotional indices and associations ...
huh?
The robot!
Martin's head swung toward the closed office door. But he made no
further move. The look of blank panic on his face very slowly, quite
unconsciously, began to change. The robot ... could wait.
Automatically Martin raised his hand, as though to adjust an invisible
monocle. Behind him, the telephone began to ring. Martin glanced at it.
His lips curved into an insolent smile.
Flicking dust from his lapel with a suave gesture, Martin picked up the
telephone. He said nothing. There was a long silence. Then a hoarse
voice shouted, "Hello, hello, hello! Are you there? You, Martin!"
Martin said absolutely nothing at all.
"You keep me waiting," the voice bellowed. "Me, St. Cyr! Now jump! The
rushes are ... Martin, do you hear me?"
Martin gently laid down the receiver on the desk. He turned again toward
the mirror, regarded himself critically, frowned.
"Dreary," he murmured. "Distinctly dreary. I wonder why I ever bought
this necktie?"
The softly bellowing telephone distracted him. He studied the instrument
briefly, then clapped his hands sharply together an inch from the
mouthpiece. There was a sharp, anguished cry from the other end of the
line.
"Very good," Martin murmured, turning away. "That robot has done me a
considerable favor. I should have realized the possibilities sooner.
After all, a super-machine, such as ENIAC, would be far cleverer than a
man, who is merely an ordinary machine. Yes," he added, stepping into
the hall and coming face to face with Toni LaMotta, who was currently
working for Summit on loan. "'_Man is a machine, and woman--_'" Here he
gave Miss LaMotta a look of such arrogant significance that she was
quite startled.
"'_And woman--a toy_,'" Martin amplified, as he turned toward Theater
One, where St. Cyr and destiny awaited him.
* * * * *
Summit Studios, outdoing even MGM, always shot ten times as much footage
as necessary on every scene. At the beginning of each shooting day, this
confusing mass of celluloid was shown in St. Cyr's private projection
theater, a small but luxurious domed room furnished with lie-back chairs
and every other convenience, though no screen was visible until you
looked up. Then you saw it on the ceiling.
When Martin entered, it was instantly evident that ecology took a sudden
shift toward the worse. Operating on the theory that the old Nicholas
Martin had come into it, the theater, which had breathed an expensive
air of luxurious confidence, chilled toward him. The nap of the Persian
rug shrank from his contaminating feet. The chair he stumbled against in
the half-light seemed to shrug contemptuously. And the three people in
the theater gave him such a look as might be turned upon one of the
larger apes who had, by sheer accident, got an invitation to Buckingham
Palace.
DeeDee Fleming (her real name was impossible to remember, besides having
not a vowel in it) lay placidly in her chair, her feet comfortably up,
her lovely hands folded, her large, liquid gaze fixed upon the screen
where DeeDee Fleming, in the silvery meshes of a technicolor mermaid,
swam phlegmatically through seas of pearl-colored mist.
Martin groped in the gloom for a chair. The strangest things were going
on inside his brain, where tiny stiles still moved and readjusted until
he no longer felt in the least like Nicholas Martin. Who did he feel
like, then? What had happened?
He recalled the neurons whose beady little eyes he had fancied he saw
staring brightly into, as well as out of, his own. Or had he? The memory
was vivid, yet it couldn't be, of course. The answer was perfectly
simple and terribly logical. ENIAC Gamma the Ninety-Third had told him,
somewhat ambiguously, just what his ecological experiment involved.
Martin had merely been given the optimum reactive pattern of his
successful prototype, a man who had most thoroughly controlled his own
environment. And ENIAC had told him the man's name, along with several
confusing references to other prototypes like an Ivan (who?) and an
unnamed Uighur.
The name for Martin's prototype was, of course, Disraeli, Earl of
Beaconsfield. Martin had a vivid recollection of George Arliss playing
the role. Clever, insolent, eccentric in dress and manner, exuberant,
suave, self-controlled, with a strongly perceptive imagination....
"No, no, no!" DeeDee said with a sort of calm impatience. "Be careful,
Nick. Some other chair, please. I have my feet on this one."
"T-t-t-t-t," said Raoul St. Cyr, protruding his thick lips and snapping
the fingers of an enormous hand as he pointed to a lowly chair against
the wall. "Behind me, Martin. Sit down, sit down. Out of our way. Now!
Pay attention. Study what I have done to make something great out of
your foolish little play. Especially note how I have so cleverly ended
the solo by building to five cumulative pratt-falls. Timing is all," he
finished. "Now--SILENCE!"
For a man born in the obscure little Balkan country of Mixo-Lydia, Raoul
St. Cyr had done very well for himself in Hollywood. In 1939 St. Cyr,
growing alarmed at the imminence of war, departed for America, taking
with him the print of an unpronounceable Mixo-Lydian film he had made,
which might be translated roughly as _The Pores In the Face of the
Peasant_.
With this he established his artistic reputation as a great director,
though if the truth were known, it was really poverty that caused _The
Pores_ to be so artistically lighted, and simple drunkenness which had
made most of the cast act out one of the strangest performances in film
history. But critics compared _The Pores_ to a ballet and praised
inordinately the beauty of its leading lady, now known to the world as
DeeDee Fleming.
DeeDee was so incredibly beautiful that the law of compensation would
force one to expect incredible stupidity as well. One was not
disappointed. DeeDee's neurons didn't know _anything_. She had heard of
emotions, and under St. Cyr's bullying could imitate a few of them, but
other directors had gone mad trying to get through the semantic block
that kept DeeDee's mind a calm, unruffled pool possibly three inches
deep. St. Cyr merely bellowed. This simple, primordial approach seemed
to be the only one that made sense to Summit's greatest investment and
top star.
With this whip-hand over the beautiful and brainless DeeDee, St. Cyr
quickly rose to the top in Hollywood. He had undoubted talent. He could
make one picture very well indeed. He had made it twenty times already,
each time starring DeeDee, and each time perfecting his own feudalistic
production unit. Whenever anyone disagreed with St. Cyr, he had only to
threaten to go over to MGM and take the obedient DeeDee with him, for he
had never allowed her to sign a long-term contract and she worked only
on a picture-to-picture basis. Even Tolliver Watt knuckled under when
St. Cyr voiced the threat of removing DeeDee.
* * * * *
"Sit down, Martin," Tolliver Watt said. He was a tall, lean,
hatchet-faced man who looked like a horse being starved because he was
too proud to eat hay. With calm, detached omnipotence he inclined his
grey-shot head a millimeter, while a faintly pained expression passed
fleetingly across his face.
"Highball, please," he said.
A white-clad waiter appeared noiselessly from nowhere and glided forward
with a tray. It was at this point that Martin felt the last stiles
readjust in his brain, and entirely on impulse he reached out and took
the frosted highball glass from the tray. Without observing this the
waiter glided on and presented Watt with a gleaming salver full of
nothing. Watt and the waiter regarded the tray.
Then their eyes met. There was a brief silence.
"Here," Martin said, replacing the glass. "Much too weak. Get me
another, please. I'm reorienting toward a new phase, which means a
different optimum," he explained to the puzzled Watt as he readjusted a
chair beside the great man and dropped into it. Odd that he had never
before felt at ease during rushes. Right now he felt fine. Perfectly at
ease. Relaxed.
"Scotch and soda for Mr. Martin," Watt said calmly. "And another for
me."
"So, so, so, now we begin," St. Cyr cried impatiently. He spoke into a
hand microphone. Instantly the screen on the ceiling flickered noisily
and began to unfold a series of rather ragged scenes in which a chorus
of mermaids danced on their tails down the street of a little Florida
fishing village.
To understand the full loathsomeness of the fate facing Nicholas Martin,
it is necessary to view a St. Cyr production. It seemed to Martin that
he was watching the most noisome movie ever put upon film. He was
conscious that St. Cyr and Watt were stealing rather mystified glances
at him. In the dark he put up two fingers and sketched a robot-like
grin. Then, feeling sublimely sure of himself, he lit a cigarette and
chuckled aloud.
"You laugh?" St. Cyr demanded with instant displeasure. "You do not
appreciate great art? What do you know about it, eh? Are you a genius?"
"This," Martin said urbanely, "is the most noisome movie ever put on
film."
In the sudden, deathly quiet which followed, Martin flicked ashes
elegantly and added, "With my help, you may yet avoid becoming the
laughing stock of the whole continent. Every foot of this picture must
be junked. Tomorrow bright and early we will start all over, and--"
Watt said quietly, "We're quite competent to make a film out of
_Angelina Noel_, Martin."
"It is artistic!" St. Cyr shouted. "And it will make money, too!"
"Bah, money!" Martin said cunningly. He flicked more ash with a lavish
gesture. "Who cares about money? Let Summit worry."
Watt leaned forward to peer searchingly at Martin in the dimness.
"Raoul," he said, glancing at St. Cyr, "I understood you were getting
your--ah--your new writers whipped into shape. This doesn't sound to me
as if--"
"Yes, yes, yes, yes," St. Cyr cried excitedly. "Whipped into shape,
exactly! A brief delirium, eh? Martin, you feel well? You feel
yourself?"
Martin laughed with quiet confidence. "Never fear," he said. "The money
you spend on me is well worth what I'll bring you in prestige. I quite
understand. Our confidential talks were not to be secret from Watt, of
course."
"What confidential talks?" bellowed St. Cyr thickly, growing red.
"We need keep nothing from Watt, need we?" Martin went on imperturably.
"You hired me for prestige, and prestige you'll get, if you can only
keep your big mouth shut long enough. I'll make the name of St. Cyr
glorious for you. Naturally you may lose something at the box-office,
but it's well worth--"
"_Pjrzqxgl!_" roared St. Cyr in his native tongue, and he lumbered up
from the chair, brandishing the microphone in an enormous, hairy hand.
Deftly Martin reached out and twitched it from his grasp.
"Stop the film," he ordered crisply.
It was very strange. A distant part of his mind knew that normally he
would never have dared behave this way, but he felt convinced that never
before in his life had he acted with complete normality. He glowed with
a giddy warmth of confidence that everything he did would be right, at
least while the twelve-hour treatment lasted....
* * * * *
The screen flickered hesitantly, then went blank.
"Turn the lights on," Martin ordered the unseen presence beyond the
mike. Softly and suddenly the room glowed with illumination. And upon
the visages of Watt and St. Cyr he saw a mutual dawning uneasiness begin
to break.
He had just given them food for thought. But he had given them more than
that. He tried to imagine what moved in the minds of the two men, below
the suspicions he had just implanted. St. Cyr's was fairly obvious. The
Mixo-Lydian licked his lips--no mean task--and studied Martin with
uneasy little bloodshot eyes. Clearly Martin had acquired confidence
from somewhere. What did it mean? What secret sin of St. Cyr's had been
discovered to him, what flaw in his contract, that he dared behave so
defiantly?
Tolliver Watt was a horse of another color; apparently the man had no
guilty secrets; but he too looked uneasy. Martin studied the proud face
and probed for inner weaknesses. Watt would be a harder nut to crack.
But Martin could do it.
"That last underwater sequence," he now said, pursuing his theme. "Pure
trash, you know. It'll have to come out. The whole scene must be shot
from under water."
"Shut up!" St. Cyr shouted violently.
"But it must, you know," Martin went on. "Or it won't jibe with the new
stuff I've written in. In fact, I'm not at all certain that the whole
picture shouldn't be shot under water. You know, we could use the
documentary technique--"
"Raoul," Watt said suddenly, "what's this man trying to do?"
"He is trying to break his contract, of course," St. Cyr said, turning
ruddy olive. "It is the bad phase all my writers go through before I get
them whipped into shape. In Mixo-Lydia--"
"Are you sure he'll whip into shape?" Watt asked.
"To me this is now a personal matter," St. Cyr said, glaring at Martin.
"I have spent nearly thirteen weeks on this man and I do not intend to
waste my valuable time on another. I tell you he is simply trying to
break his contract--tricks, tricks, tricks."
"Are you?" Watt asked Martin coldly.
"Not now," Martin said. "I've changed my mind. My agent insists I'd be
better off away from Summit. In fact, she has the curious feeling that I
and Summit would suffer by a mesalliance. But for the first time I'm not
sure I agree. I begin to see possibilities, even in the tripe St. Cyr
has been stuffing down the public's throat for years. Of course I can't
work miracles all at once. Audiences have come to expect garbage from
Summit, and they've even been conditioned to like it. But we'll begin in
a small way to re-educate them with this picture. I suggest we try to
symbolize the Existentialist hopelessness of it all by ending the film
with a full four hundred feet of seascapes--nothing but vast, heaving
stretches of ocean," he ended, on a note of complacent satisfaction.
A vast, heaving stretch of Raoul St. Cyr rose from his chair and
advanced upon Martin.
"Outside, outside!" he shouted. "Back to your cell, you double-crossing
vermin! I, Raoul St. Cyr, command it. Outside, before I rip you limb
from limb--"
Martin spoke quickly. His voice was calm, but he knew he would have to
work fast.
"You see, Watt?" he said clearly, meeting Watt's rather startled gaze.
"Doesn't dare let you exchange three words with me, for fear I'll let
something slip. No wonder he's trying to put me out of here--he's
skating on thin ice these days."
Goaded, St. Cyr rolled forward in a ponderous lunge, but Watt
interposed. It was true, of course, that the writer was probably trying
to break his contract. But there were wheels within wheels here. Martin
was too confident, too debonaire. Something was going on which Watt did
not understand.
"All right, Raoul," he said decisively. "Relax for a minute. I said
relax! We don't want Nick here suing you for assault and battery, do we?
Your artistic temperament carries you away sometimes. Relax and let's
hear what Nick has to say."
"Watch out for him, Tolliver!" St. Cyr cried warningly. "They're
cunning, these creatures. Cunning as rats. You never know--"
Martin raised the microphone with a lordly gesture. Ignoring the
director, he said commandingly into the mike, "Put me through to the
commissary. The bar, please. Yes. I want to order a drink. Something
very special. A--ah--a Helena Glinska--"
* * * * *
"Hello," Erika Ashby's voice said from the door. "Nick, are you there?
May I come in?"
The sound of her voice sent delicious chills rushing up and down
Martin's spine. He swung round, mike in hand, to welcome her. But St.
Cyr, pleased at this diversion, roared before he could speak.
"No, no, no, no! Go! Go at once. Whoever you are--_out_!"
Erika, looking very brisk, attractive and firm, marched into the room
and cast at Martin a look of resigned patience.
Very clearly she expected to fight both her own battles and his.
"I'm on business here," she told St. Cyr coldly. "You can't part author
and agent like this. Nick and I want to have a word with Mr. Watt."
"Ah, my pretty creature, sit down," Martin said in a loud, clear voice,
scrambling out of his chair. "Welcome! I'm just ordering myself a drink.
Will you have something?"
Erika looked at him with startled suspicion. "No, and neither will you,"
she said. "How many have you had already? Nick, if you're drunk at a
time like this--"
"And no shilly-shallying," Martin said blandly into the mike. "I want it
at once, do you hear? A Helena Glinska, yes. Perhaps you don't know it?
Then listen carefully. Take the largest Napoleon you've got. If you
haven't a big one, a small punch bowl will do. Fill it half full with
ice-cold ale. Got that? Add three jiggers of creme de menthe--"
"Nick, are you mad?" Erika demanded, revolted.
"--and six jiggers of honey," Martin went on placidly. "Stir, don't
shake. Never shake a Helena Glinska. Keep it well chilled, and--"
"Miss Ashby, we are very busy," St. Cyr broke in importantly, making
shooing motions toward the door. "Not now. Sorry. You interrupt. Go at
once."
"--better add six more jiggers of honey," Martin was heard to add
contemplatively into the mike. "And then send it over immediately. Drop
everything else, and get it here within sixty seconds. There's a bonus
for you if you do. Okay? Good. See to it."
He tossed the microphone casually at St. Cyr.
Meanwhile, Erika had closed in on Tolliver Watt.
"I've just come from talking to Gloria Eden," she said, "and she's
willing to do a one-picture deal with Summit _if_ I okay it. But I'm not
going to okay it unless you release Nick Martin from his contract, and
that's flat."
Watt showed pleased surprise.
"Well, we might get together on that," he said instantly, for he was a
fan of Miss Eden's and for a long time had yearned to star her in a
remake of _Vanity Fair_. "Why didn't you bring her along? We could
have--"
"Nonsense!" St. Cyr shouted. "Do not discuss this matter yet, Tolliver."
"She's down at Laguna," Erika explained. "Be quiet, St. Cyr! I won't--"
A knock at the door interrupted her. Martin hurried to open it and as he
had expected encountered a waiter with a tray.
"Quick work," he said urbanely, accepting the huge, coldly sweating
Napoleon in a bank of ice. "Beautiful, isn't it?"
St. Cyr's booming shouts from behind him drowned out whatever remark the
waiter may have made as he received a bill from Martin and withdrew,
looking nauseated.
"No, no, no, no," St. Cyr was roaring. "Tolliver, we can get Gloria and
keep this writer too, not that he is any good, but I have spent already
thirteen weeks training him in the St. Cyr approach. Leave it to me. In
Mixo-Lydia we handle--"
Erika's attractive mouth was opening and shutting, her voice unheard in
the uproar. St. Cyr could keep it up indefinitely, as was well known in
Hollywood. Martin sighed, lifted the brimming Napoleon and sniffed
delicately as he stepped backward toward his chair. When his heel
touched it, he tripped with the utmost grace and savoir-faire, and very
deftly emptied the Helena Glinsak, ale, honey, creme de menthe, ice and
all, over St. Cyr's capacious front.
St. Cyr's bellow broke the microphone.
* * * * *
Martin had composed his invention carefully. The nauseous brew combined
the maximum elements of wetness, coldness, stickiness and pungency.
The drenched St. Cyr, shuddering violently as the icy beverage deluged
his legs, snatched out his handkerchief and mopped in vain. The
handkerchief merely stuck to his trousers, glued there by twelve jiggers
of honey. He reeked of peppermint.
"I suggest we adjourn to the commissary," Martin said fastidiously. "In
some private booth we can go on with this discussion away from the--the
rather overpowering smell of peppermint."
"In Mixo-Lydia," St. Cyr gasped, sloshing in his shoes as he turned
toward Martin, "in Mixo-Lydia we throw to the dogs--we boil in
oil--we--"
"And next time," Martin said, "please don't joggle my elbow when I'm
holding a Helena Glinska. It's most annoying."
St. Cyr drew a mighty breath, rose to his full height--and then
subsided. St. Cyr at the moment looked like a Keystone Kop after the
chase sequence, and knew it. Even if he killed Martin now, the element
of classic tragedy would be lacking. He would appear in the untenable
position of Hamlet murdering his uncle with custard pies.
"Do nothing until I return!" he commanded, and with a final glare at
Martin plunged moistly out of the theater.
The door crashed shut behind him. There was silence for a moment except
for the soft music from the overhead screen which DeeDee had caused to
be turned on again, so that she might watch her own lovely form flicker
in dimmed images through pastel waves, while she sang a duet with Dan
Dailey about sailors, mermaids and her home in far Atlantis.
"And now," said Martin, turning with quiet authority to Watt, who was
regarding him with a baffled expression, "I want a word with you."
"I can't discuss your contract till Raoul gets back," Watt said quickly.
"Nonsense," Martin said in a firm voice. "Why should St. Cyr dictate
your decisions? Without you, he couldn't turn out a box-office success
if he had to. No, be quiet, Erika. I'm handling this, my pretty
creature."
Watt rose to his feet. "Sorry, I can't discuss it," he said. "St. Cyr
pictures make money, and you're an inexperien--"
"That's why I see the true situation so clearly," Martin said. "The
trouble with you is you draw a line between artistic genius and
financial genius. To you, it's merely routine when you work with the
plastic medium of human minds, shaping them into an Ideal Audience. You
are an ecological genius, Tolliver Watt! The true artist controls his
environment, and gradually you, with a master's consummate skill, shape
that great mass of living, breathing humanity into a perfect
audience...."
"Sorry," Watt said, but not, bruskly. "I really have no time--ah--"
"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...."
* * * * *