Martin drew a long breath. Ivan's capacious memory had served him very well so far. Voltage, he recalled, increased the frequency of the robot's thought-patterns and disorganized ENIAC's memory--which was being proved before his eyes. But the crux of his plan was yet to come.... "The year of the great Hairy One, of course," Martin said briskly. "Don't you remember?" "Then you--" ENIAC strove to focus upon his drinking-companion. "You must be Mammoth-Slayer." "That's it!" Martin cried. "Have another jolt. What about giving me the treatment now?" "What treatment?" Martin looked impatient. "You said you were going to impose the character-matrix of Mammoth-Slayer on my mind. You said _that_ would insure my optimum ecological adjustment in this temporal phase, and nothing else would." "Did I? But you're not Mammoth-Slayer," ENIAC said confusedly. "Mammoth-Slayer was the son of the Great Hairy One. What's your mother's name?" "The Great Hairy One," Martin replied, at which the robot grated its hand across its gleaming forehead. "Have one more jolt," Martin suggested. "Now take out the ecologizer and put it on my head." "Like this?" ENIAC asked, obeying. "I keep feeling I've forgotten something important. _F (t)._" Martin adjusted the crystal helmet on his skull. "Now," he commanded. "Give me the character-matrix of Mammoth-Slayer, son of the Great Hairy One." "Well--all right," ENIAC said dizzily. The red ribbons swirled. There was a flash from the helmet. "There," the robot said. "It's done. It may take a few minutes to begin functioning, but then for twelve hours you'll--wait! Where are you going?" But Martin had already departed. The robot stuffed the helmet and the quarter-mile of red ribbon back for the last time. He lurched to the floor-lamp, muttering something about one for the road. Afterward, the room lay empty. A fading murmur said, "_F(t)._" * * * * * "Nick!" Erika gasped, staring at the figure in the doorway. "Don't stand like that! You frighten me!" Everyone in the room looked up abruptly at her cry, and so were just in time to see a horrifying change take place in Martin's shape. It was an illusion, of course, but an alarming one. His knees slowly bent until he was half-crouching, his shoulders slumped as though bowed by the weight of enormous back and shoulder muscles, and his arms swung forward until their knuckles hung perilously near the floor. Nicholas Martin had at last achieved a personality whose ecological norm would put him on a level with Raoul St. Cyr. "Nick!" Erika quavered. Slowly Martin's jaw protruded till his lower teeth were hideously visible. Gradually his eyelids dropped until he was peering up out of tiny, wicked sockets. Then, slowly, a perfectly shocking grin broadened Mr. Martin's mouth. "Erika," he said throatily. "Mine!" And with that, he shambled forward, seized the horrified girl in his arms, and bit her on the ear.