"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.