Martin drew himself up desperately. Now or never he must force himself to be truly Terrible. Already he had a troubled expression, just like Ivan. He strove to look sinister too. An enigmatic smile played around his lips. For an instant he resembled the Mad Tsar of Russia, except, of course, that he was clean-shaven. With contemptuous, regal power Martin stared down the Mixo-Lydian. "You will tear up that release and sign an agreement giving us option on your next play too, ha?" St. Cyr said--but a trifle uncertainly. "I'll do as I please," Martin told him. "How would you like to be eaten alive by dogs?" "I don't know, Raoul," Watt said. "Let's try to get this settled even if--" "Do you want me to go over to Metro and take DeeDee with me?" St. Cyr cried, turning toward Watt. "He _will_ sign!" And, reaching into an inner pocket for a pen, the burly director swung back toward Martin. "_Assassin!_" cried Martin, misinterpreting the gesture. A gloating smile appeared on St. Cyr's revolting features. "Now we have him, Tolliver," he said, with heavy triumph, and these ominous words added the final stress to Martin's overwhelming burden. With a mad cry he rushed past St. Cyr, wrenched open a door, and fled. From behind him came Erika's Valkyrie voice. "Leave him alone! Haven't you done enough already? Now I'm going to get that contract release from you before I leave this room, Tolliver Watt, and I warn you, St. Cyr, if you--" But by then Martin was five rooms away, and the voice faded. He darted on, hopelessly trying to make himself slow down and return to the scene of battle. The pressure was too strong. Terror hurled him down a corridor, into another room, and against a metallic object from which he rebounded, to find himself sitting on the floor looking up at ENIAC Gamma the Ninety-Third. "Ah, there you are," the robot said. "I've been searching all over space-time for you. You forgot to give me a waiver of responsibility when you talked me into varying the experiment. The Authorities would be in my gears if I didn't bring back an eyeprinted waiver when a subject's scratched by variance." With a frightened glance behind him, Martin rose to his feet. "What?" he asked confusedly. "Listen, you've got to change me back to myself. Everyone's trying to kill me. You're just in time. I can't wait twelve hours. Change me back to myself, quick!" "Oh, I'm through with you," the robot said callously. "You're no longer a suitably unconditioned subject, after that last treatment you insisted on. I should have got the waiver from you then, but you got me all confused with Disraeli's oratory. Now here. Just hold this up to your left eye for twenty seconds." He extended a flat, glittering little metal disk. "It's already sensitized and filled out. It only needs your eyeprint. Affix it, and you'll never see me again." Martin shrank away. "But what's going to happen to me?" he quavered, swallowing.