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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 hi 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.
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"You aren't married yet, then? To Anastasia Zak-harina-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 per cent
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 Zak-
harina-Koshkina?"
"What a wonderful memory you have," the robot put hi mournfully. "Mine used to
be, before I
started tem-poralizing. 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
hi 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 Tolh'ver
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?" . r
"I told you-ott. 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
file:///F|/rah/Henry%20Kuttner/Kuttner%20-%20The%20Best%20of%20Kuttner%201%20U
C.txt (45 of 166) [2/4/03 10:15:49 PM]
file:///F|/rah/Henry%20Kuttner/Kuttner%20-%20The%20Best%20of%20Kuttner%201%20U
C.txt 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.
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"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.
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