The Ego Machine - Chapters 1 - 2

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Welcome to Dream Audio Books, your guide through this captivating story.
Relax and let yourself be carried away into a world
where every word resonates with the magic of imagination. Without
further ado, Let's dive together into.

Speaker 2 (00:14):
Ego Machine by Henry Kutner, Part one, When a slightly
mad robot drunk on ac wants you to join an
experiment and optimum ecology. Don't do it? After all? Who
wants to argue like Disraeli? Your live like Ivan the Terrible?

(00:39):
Chapter one. Nicholas Martin looked up at the robot across
the desk. I'm not going to ask you what you want,
he said, in a low, restrained voice. I already know.
Just go away and tell Saint cyr I approve. Tell him,
I think it's wonderful putting a robot in the picture.

(01:01):
We've had everything else by now except the rock Cats,
but clearly a quiet little play about Christmas among the
Portuguese fishermen on the Florida coast must have a robot.

Speaker 3 (01:12):
Only, why not six robots? Tell him, I suggest a
Baker's dozen. Go away. Was your mother's name, Helena Glinsk
The robot asked, it was not, Martin said, ah, then
she must have been the great hairy one, the robot murmured.

(01:33):
Martin took his feet off the desk and sat up slowly.
It's quite all right, the robots 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,

(01:55):
you bit player. This time Saint 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,

(02:15):
the robots said, apologetically. Have I made a mistake? The
threshold fluctuations in the neurons always upset my mnemonic norm
when I temporize. 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

(02:38):
destroy the life form. Unless now, either you're about to
be stepped on by a mammoth locked in an iron mask,
assassinated by Hellet's 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, goodbye, he added hastily,

(03:01):
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 in 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

(03:24):
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 Klinsk, 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

(03:49):
aren't married yet, then, to Anastasia Zakarina Koshkina, Not yet
or ever, Martin replied succinctly. The telephone rang. He snatched
it up. Hello, Nick, said Erica Ashby's calm voice. Something wrong.
Instantly the fires of rage went out of Martin's eyes,

(04:11):
to be replaced by a tender rose pink glow. For
some years now he had given Erica 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

(04:32):
did not. He put it in no terms at all,
since whenever he tried to propose marriage to Erica, he
was taken with such fits of modesty that he could
only babble, oh, greenfields well. Erica repeated, something wrong, Yes,
Martin said, drawing a long breath. Can Saint Cyr make

(04:54):
me marry somebody named Anastasia Zacharina Cooshkina. What a wonderful
memory you have, the robot put in, mournfully. Mine used
to be before I started temporizing. But even radioactive neurons
won't stand. Nominally, You're still entitled to life, liberty, et cetera.
Erica said, But I'm busy right now, Nick, can it

(05:17):
wait till I see you? When didn't you get my message?
Erica demanded, of course not, Martin said angrily. I've suspected
for some time that all my incoming calls have to
be cleared by Saint Cyr. Somebody might try to smuggle
in a word of hope, or possibly a file. His

(05:39):
voice brightened, planning at jailbreak. H this is outrageous, Erica said.
Someday Saint Cyr is going to go too far, not
while he's got d D behind him, Martin said gloomily.
Some at studios would sooner have made a film promoting
atheism than offend their top box office star D D. Fleming.

(06:02):
Even Tolliver Watt, who owned sum At, lock Stock and Barrel,
spent wakeful nights because Saint Cyr refused to let the
lovely d D sign a long term contract. Nevertheless, what's
no fool, Erica 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

(06:23):
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. Erica, do something I'm going to Erica said,

(06:45):
that's exactly what I want to see you about. Ah,
She added suddenly, Now I understand why Saint Cyr stopped
my message. He was afraid, Nick. Do you know what
we've got to do? See what? Nick hazard unhappily. But Erica,
see what alone? Erica amplified, not if Saint Cyr can

(07:10):
help it, Nick reminded her, exactly Naturally, Saint 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 Saint Cyr at bay.
Which do you choose? Neither? Martin said promptly, Oh, Nick,

(07:32):
I can't do the whole thing alone. Anybody'd think you
were afraid of Saint Cyr. I am afraid of Saint Cyr.
Martin said, nonsense. What could he actually do to you?
He could terrorize me. He does it all the time, Erica,
He says, I'm indoctrinating beautifully. Doesn't it make your blood
run cold? Look at all the other writers he's indoctrinated.

(07:57):
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, Erica.
I'm sorry, so am I? Erica said tartly. For a moment,

(08:21):
I thought you'd acquire the 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 are Nicholas Martin. The
next subject, Martin Martin, let me see. Oh yes, that

(08:44):
Israeli type. That's it. He rubbed his forehead with a
grating sound. Oh my, poor Nora on thresholds now, I
remember Nick, can you hear me? Erica's voice inquired, I'm
coming over there right away, brace yourself, going to beard
Saint Cyr in his den and convince what you'll never
make a good screenwriter. Now, but Saint Cyr won't ever

(09:07):
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 screenwriter or kill me. Remember what happened
to Ed Cassidy. Erica reminded him grimly, Saint Cyr didn't
make him into a screenwriter. True, poor old Ed Martin said,

(09:28):
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.

(09:50):
A faint, hopeless squeak vibrated the telephone's desk. Martin let
his shoulders slump hopelessly. It was clear he could never
propose to anybody, not even a harmless telephone. Did you
say something? Erica asked, Well, goodbye? Then wait a minute,
Martin said, his eyes suddenly falling once more upon the robot.

(10:13):
Speechless on one subject only, he went on rapidly, I
forgot to tell you what and the nest fowling Saint
Cyr have just hired a mock up phony robot to
play in Angelina. No, well, but the line was dead.
I'm not a phony, the robot said. Hurt, Martin fell

(10:33):
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. Saint Cyr 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 wearing? I don't mind Fred wearing in his
proper place there he's fine, but not in Angelina. No, well,

(10:58):
not as the Portuguese captain of a fishing boat, manned
by his entire band, accompanied by Dan Daly singingknoply to
Dee Dee 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

(11:21):
from his semi recumbent position. Who, He asked, shakily, who,
Saint Cyr? A horse 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

(11:43):
Angeline Noel is simply, I do not hear what you say,
roared a heavy voice. Your idea stinks, whatever it is,
be at Theatre one for yesterday's rushes at once, but wait,
Saint Cyr belched and hung up. Martin's strangling hands tightened

(12:03):
briefly on the telephone, but it was no use. The
real stranglehold was the once Saint 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

(12:26):
of the hit play Angelina Noel. Then had come Saint Cyr,
A snob at heart, the director loved getting his clutches
on hit plays and name writers some at studios. He
had roared at Martin would follow the original play exactly
and would give Martin the final ok on this script,
provided he signed a thirteen week contract to help write

(12:49):
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 Eric Ashby had been
in the hospit 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

(13:09):
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. We're 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

(13:30):
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,

(13:50):
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

(14:12):
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.

(14:37):
His voice sounded somewhat wistful. What happens? He inquired? Is
it 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,

(14:57):
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.

(15:21):
Of course, my world is perfectly functional and functionally perfect,
but I can't help finding temporalizing a fascinate He broke off.
I'm wasting time space now, mister 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,

(15:44):
and I've got to go to 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 sholt, can't you. I'd like to try it,
the robot said, pensively. Ever since I noticed the effect
fermented mammot's milk had on the boys, it's been on

(16:05):
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

(16:25):
mean it does. What do you call that a mammoth?
He indicated the desk lamp. The robot's jaws 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

(16:47):
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. Use. 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,

(17:09):
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, he said, and swayed slightly. Then
his fingers came up and sketched a smile that seemed

(17:30):
somehow to express delighted surprise, he said, and went on
rather thickly integral between plus and minus infinity abs and
to yet Martin's eyes opened wide with shocked horror. Whether
a doctor or a psychiatrist should be called in was debatable,

(17:52):
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 robots suit
was clearly as mad as a hatter. Martin poised and decisively,
waiting for his lunatic guest either to drop dead or
spring at his throat. The robot appeared to be smacking

(18:13):
his lips with faint clicking sounds. Why that's wonderful, he said,
ac too. Yeah, 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

(18:36):
the robot with the wildest dawning of surmise. Why, he guessed,
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.

(18:59):
I mean, if you've counted the cappa waves of my
radio atomic brain now, you'd be amazed how the frequencies increased,
he paused, thoughtfully, 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. He said, paused, shuddered,

(19:24):
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 Vassilovitch in an alchemist's lab, and

(19:45):
he'll jump to the conclusive that I'm an automaton, which
of course I am. Then there's Eager on my list.
I'll appear to him in his shaman's hut and he'll
assume I'm medevil. A matter of echaeological logic. Then you're
a devil, Martin inquired, seizing on the only plausible solution. No, no, no,

(20:07):
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 fawn 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

(20:33):
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 luster. After approximately a quarter of
a mile of it had appeared, a crystal football helmet emerged.
Attached to its end, a gleaming red stone was set

(20:55):
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

(21:17):
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

(21:38):
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,

(22:00):
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,

(22:21):
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 sociocultural experiment for
the benefit of all mankind? No, Martin said, But you

(22:46):
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 robots said,
believed that may be one trouble with my memory. I

(23:06):
had to record so many languages before I could temporalize
Sanskrit's very simple, but medieval Russians confusing. And as for Eager, 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.

(23:30):
In other words, the right reaction at the right time. Understand,
of course not, Martin said, what nonsense you talk? There are,
the robots 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

(23:52):
environments tend to repeat like societies, you know, and organizational
pattern isn't hard to lay out along the caldecous timescale.
You follow me so far by the Chaldecouo's time scale, Yes,
Martin said, I was always lucid. The robot remarked a
little vainly, narishing a swirl of red ribbon. Keep that

(24:15):
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.

(24:36):
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 It 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

(24:58):
it doesn't, Martin said, tilting the glance to his lips.
Not even in Hollywood does nineteen fifty two come before
fifteen seventy. I'm using the Kaldacoo's 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

(25:20):
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.

(25:42):
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's species.
Eniac said, as to himself, low brutish reasoning, No wonder
when their heads are so small. Now, mister Martin, he spoke,

(26:06):
as though to a small, stupid, stubborn child, try to
understand this helmet 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 an annoyance. It does fit. Look here, Recklessly, he

(26:31):
snatched the helmet and clapped it firmly on his head.
It fits perfectly, I heard, 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

(26:52):
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. Goodbye,
the robot said, and thank you for what Martin demanded.
For your cooperation, the robot said, I won't cooperate. Martin

(27:16):
told him flatly, it's no use. Whatever full 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

(27:40):
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. Chapter two, Nicholas Martin felt
like a man suddenly thrust under an ice cold, no

(28:01):
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

(28:23):
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,

(28:47):
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 confusions settled and ceased. The violent sensory perceptions
leveled off and returned to normal. Everything was quiet, Everything

(29:08):
was all right. Martin met his own eyes in the mirror.
Everything was not all right. He was stone cold, sober,
the scotchy head 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,

(29:32):
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

(29:53):
and no reaction time of the memory circuits with their
key emotional in disease 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

(30:17):
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

(30:38):
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, Saint Cyr,
now jump the brushes are Martin? Do you hear me?

(30:59):
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

(31:20):
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,

(31:45):
stepping into the hall and coming face to face with
Tony Lamatta, who was currently working for a summit on loan.
Man is a machine and woman here he gave Miss
Lamatta a look of such arrogant significance that she was
quite startled, and woman a toy Martin amplified as he

(32:06):
turned toward Theatre I, where Saint Cyr and Destiny awaited him.
Sum At Studios, out doing even MGM always shot ten
times as much footage as necessary on every scene. At
the beginning of each shooting day, this confusing massive celluloid
was shown in Saint Cyr's private Projection Theater, a small
but luxurious domed room furnished with lie back chairs and

(32:30):
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.

(32:54):
The nap of the Persian rug shrank from his contaminating feet,
the chair heaps gumbled against him. 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. D d Fleming, her

(33:17):
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 De de Fleming, in the
silvery meshes of a technicolor mermaid, swam phlegmatically through seas
of pearl colored mist. Martin groped in the gloom for

(33:41):
a chair. The strangest things were going on inside his brain,
where tiny style 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,

(34:04):
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

(34:25):
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 eager. The name for Martin's prototype was, of course, Disraeli,
Earl of Beaconsfield. Martin had a vivid recollection of George

(34:47):
Arlis playing the role clever, insolent, eccentric in dress and manner, exuberant, suave,
self controlled with a strongly perceptive imagination. No no, no, oh,
DeeDee said, with a sort of calm impatience. Be careful, Nick,
some other chair please, I have my feet on this one,

(35:11):
said Raul Saint 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

(35:31):
cleverly ended the solo by building two five cumulative pratfalls.
Timing is all he finished. Now silence for a man
born in the obscure little Balkan country of Mixolydia, Raoul
Saint Cyr had done very well for himself in Hollywood.
In nineteen thirty nine, Saint Cyr, growing alarmed at the

(35:51):
imminence of war, departed for America, taking with him the
print of an unpronounceable Mixoldian film he had made, which
might be transd 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 Poors to be

(36:14):
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 Poors to a
ballet and praised inordinately the beauty of its leading lady,
now known to the world as d. D Fleming. D
D was so incredibly beautiful that the law of compensation

(36:38):
would force one to expect incredible stupidity as well. One
was not disappointed. Dee Dee's neurons didn't know anything. She
had heard of emotions, and under Saint Cyr's bullying could
imitate a few of them. But other directors had gone
mad trying to get through the semantic block that kept

(36:58):
Dede's mind a calm, unruffled pool, possibly three inches deep.
Saint Cyr merely bellowed. This simple, primordial approach seemed to
be the only one that made sense to summits great
investment and top star. With this whip hand over the
beautiful and brainless d D, Saint Cyr quickly rose to

(37:19):
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 d D and each
time perfecting his own feudalistic production unit. Whenever anyone disagreed
with Saint Cyr, he had only to threaten to go
over to MGM and take the obedient d D with him,

(37:41):
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 Saint Cyr
voiced the threat of removing d D. Sit down. Martin
Tolliver Watt said he was a tall, lean, hatchet faced
man who looked like a horse being starved because he

(38:03):
was too proud to eat hay. With calm detached omnipotence,
he inclined his gray shot head a millimeter while a
faintly pained expression passed fleetingly across his face. High ball, please,
he said. A white clad waiter appeared noiselessly from nowhere
and glided forward with a tray. It was at this

(38:24):
point that Martin felt the last styles, readjusting 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 what with a gleaming solver
full of nothing. Watt and the waiter regarded the tray.

(38:45):
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

(39:05):
that he had never before felt at ease during rushes.
Right now he felt fine, perfectly at ease. Relaxed. Scotch
and soda for mister Martin, Watt said, calmly, and another
for me, so so so so, Now we begin, Saint
Cyr cried impatiently. He spoke into a hand microphone. Instantly,

(39:28):
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 Saint Cyr production. It seemed to Martin

(39:51):
that he was watching the most noisome movie ever put
upon film. He was conscious that Saint 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, Saint Cyr demanded, with instant displeasure.

(40:16):
You do not appreciate great art. What did you know
about it? Eh? Are you a genius? This, Martin said,
or vainly 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

(40:36):
becoming the laughingstock of the whole continent. Every foot of
this picture must be junked. Tomorrow, bright and early. We
will start all over. And Wat said quietly. We're quite
confident to make a film out of Angelina Noel Martin.
It is artistic, Saint Cyr shouted. And it will make

(40:57):
money too, bah money, Martin said cunningly. He flicked more
ash with a lavish gesture. Who cares about money? Let's
summit worry. Watt leaned forward to peer searchingly at Martin
in the dimness, Raoul, he said, glancing at Saint Cyr,

(41:18):
I understood you were getting your your new writers whipped
into shape. This doesn't sound to me as if yes, yes, yes, yes,
Saint Cyr cried excitedly, whipped into shape exactly a brief delirium.
May Martin, you feel well? You feel yourself? Martin laughed,
with quiet confidence, never fear, he said. The money you

(41:42):
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 what, of course, what confidential talks?
Bellowed Saint Cyr, thickly, growing red. We need to keep
nothing from wy need we, Martin went on, imperturbably. You

(42:03):
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 Saint Cyr glorious for you. Naturally,
you may lose something at the box office, but it's
well worth. But Jur's cook, roared Saint Cyr in his
native tongue, and he lumbered up from the chair, brandishing

(42:24):
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 behaved this way, but he felt convinced that never
before in his life had he acted with complete normality.

(42:47):
He glowed with a giddy warmth of confidence that everything
he did would be all right at least while the
twelve hour treatment lasted. The scream flickered hesitantly, then went blank.
Turn on the lights, Martin ordered the unseen presence beyond
the mic softly, and suddenly the room glowed with illumination,

(43:08):
and upon the visages of Watt and Saint 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. Saint Cyr's was fairly obvious. The

(43:30):
mix Olidian 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 Saint Cyr's had been discovered to him? What flaw
in his contract that he dared behave so defiantly? Tolliver

(43:50):
Watt was a horse of another color. Apparently the man
had no guilty secrets, but he too looked uneasy. Martin
studied the proud faith and probe for inner weaknesses Watt
would be a harder not to crack, but Martin could
do it. That last underwooter sequence, he now said, pursuing

(44:11):
his theme pure trash. You know it'll have to come out.
The whole scene must be shot from underwater. Shut up,
Saint Cyr shouted violently. But it must, you know, Martin
went on, or it won't jibe with the new stuff
I've written. In fact, I'm not at all certain that
the whole picture shouldn't be shot underwater. You know, we

(44:33):
could use the documentary technique. Raoul Watt said, suddenly, what's
this man trying to do? He's trying to break his contract?
Of course, Saint Cyr said, turning ruddy olive. It is
the bad phase all my writers go through before I
get them whipped into shape in Mixolydia. Are you sure

(44:55):
he'll whip into shape? Wat asked to me. This is
now a personal matter, Saint Cyr said, glaring at Martin.
I have spent nearly thirteen weeks on this man, and
I do not intend to waste my valuable time one another.
I tell you, he is simply trying to break his contract.
Tricks tricks, tricks, are you what? Asked Martin coldly. Not now,

(45:20):
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 missalliance. But for the first time, I'm not sure
I agree. I begin to see the possibilities even in
the tripe Saint Cyr has been stuffing down the public's
throat for years. Of course, I can't work miracles all

(45:43):
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 existential
hopelessness of it all by ending the film with a
full four hundred feet of sea scapes, nothing but vast

(46:04):
heaving stretches of ocean. He ended on a note of
complacent satisfaction, a vast heaving stretch of Raoul. Saint Cyr
rose from his chair and advanced upon Martin Outside. Outside,
he shouted back to your cell you double crossing vermin aye,
Raoul Saint Cyr commanded outside, before I rip you limb

(46:27):
from limb, Martin spoke quickly. His voice was calm, but
he knew he would have to work fast. You see
what 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,

(46:50):
goaded Saint Cyr rolled forward in a ponderous lunch. 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 debonair.
Something was going on which Watt did not understand. All right, Raoul,

(47:11):
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, Saint Cyr cried, warningly. They're cunning, these creatures,

(47:31):
cunning his rats. You never know. Martin raised the microphone
with a lordly gesture, ignoring the director. He said commandingly
into the mic, 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

(47:56):
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 Saint Cyr, pleased at this diversion,
roared before he could speak. No, no, no, no, go
go at once, whoever you are out. Erica, looking very brisk,

(48:21):
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 want
business here, she told Saint Cyr coldly. You can't part
author an agent like this, Nick, and I want to
have a word with mister watt Ah, my pretty creature.

(48:44):
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? Erica 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,

(49:05):
and no shilly shallying, Martin said, blandly into the mic.
I want it at once. Do you hear a Helena Glinsk? 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, and three jiggers of

(49:28):
krem dement Nick are you mad? Erica demanded, revolted, and
six jiggers of honey. Martin went on, placidly, stir, don't shake,
never shake, a Helena Glinsk, keep it well chilled, and
miss Ashby, we are very busy. Saint Cyr broke in, importantly,

(49:49):
making shooting 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 mic, 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

(50:12):
the microphone casually at Saint Cyr. Meanwhile, Erica 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 some if I okay it. But
I'm not going to okay it unless you released Nick
Martin from his contract. And that's flat. Watt showed pleased surprise.

(50:36):
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 start her in a
remake of Vanity Fair. Why didn't you bring her along?
We could have nonsense, Saint Cyr shouted, Do not discuss
this matter yet, Tolliver. She's down at Laguna, Erica explained,

(50:59):
Be quiet, Saints, I want 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, urbainly, accepting the huge, coldly sweating Napoleon in
a bank of ice. Beautiful, isn't it? Saint Cyr's booming

(51:20):
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, Saint Cyr
was roaring, Tolliver, we can get Gloria and keep this
writer too. Not that he's any good, but I have
already spent thirteen weeks training him in the Saint Cyr approach.

(51:41):
Leave it to me in mix Olviia we handle Erica's
attractive mouth was opening and shutting, her voice unheard in
the uproar. Saint Cyr could keep it up indefinitely, as
was well known in Hollywood. Martin's sighed lifted the brimming
Napoleon and sniffed delicately as he stepped backward toward his chair.

(52:02):
When his heel touched it, he tripped with the utmost
grace and savoir faire, and very deftly emptied the Helena
glinsk Ale honey, crim dement ice and all over Saint
Cyr's capacious front. Saint Cyr's bellow broke the microphone. Martin
had composed his invention carefully. The nauseous brew combined the

(52:25):
maximum elements of wetness, coldness, stickiness, and pungency. The drenched
Saint 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 adjourned

(52:50):
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 mixolydia. Saint Cyr gasped,
slashing in his shoes as he turned toward Martin. In Mixolydia,
we throw to the dogs, we boil in oil wheat,

(53:13):
and next time, Martin said, please don't joggle my elbow
when I'm holding a Helena Glinskoe. It's most annoying. Saint
Cyr drew a mighty breath, rose to his full height,
and then subsided. Saint Cyr at the moment, looked like
a keystone cop after the chase sequence, and knew it
even if he killed Martin now, the element of classic

(53:34):
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,

(53:55):
except for the soft music from the overhead screen, which
Dee Dee had cause 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 Day about sailors, mermaids and her home in
far Atlantas. And now, said Martin, turning with quiet authority

(54:17):
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 Saint Cyr dictate your
decisions without you? He couldn't turn out a box office

(54:37):
success if he had to. No, be quiet Erica, I'm
handling this, my pretty creature. Watt rose to his feet. Sorry,
I can't discuss it, he said. Saint Cyr pictures make money,
and you're an inexperience. That's why I see the true
situation so clearly, Martin said. The trouble with you is

(54:58):
you draw a line between ouristic 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,

(55:20):
shape that great mass of living breathing humanity into a
perfect audience. Sorry, Watt said, but not brusquely. I really
have no time. Your genius has gone long enough unrecognized,
Martin said, hastily, letting admiration ring in his golden voice.

(55:40):
You assume that Saint 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 fidious, non commercial, was Michelangelo. Commercialism
is simply a label for functionalism, and all great artists

(56:00):
produce functional art. The trivial details of Ruben's masterpieces were
filled in by assistance, were they not? But Ruben's got
the credit, not his hirelings. The proof of the pudding's obvious.
Why cunningly gaging his listener, Martin here broke off. Why

(56:20):
Watt asked sit down. Martin urged, I'll tell you why
Saint Cyr's pictures make money, but you're responsible for their
molding into the ideal form, impressing your character matrix upon
everything and every one at Summit Studios. Slowly, Watt sank
into his chair about his ears. The hypnotic bursts of

(56:41):
Disraeli and Rotomontade thundered compellingly. For Martin, had the man
hooked with unerring aim. He had, at the first try
discovered Watt's weakness, the uncomfortable feeling in a professionally arty
town that money making is a basically contemptible business. Disraeli
had handled tougher problems in his day. He had swayed parliaments.

(57:06):
Watt swayed, tottered, and fell. It took about ten minutes
all in all. By the end of that time, dizzy
with eloquent praise of his economic ability, Watt had realized
that while Saint Cyr might be an artistic genius, he
had no business interfering in the plans of an economic genius.
Nobody told Watt what to do when economics were concerned.

(57:30):
You have the broad vision that can balance all possibilities
and show the right path with perfect clarity, Martin said, glibly,
very well you wish Eden? You feel, do you not
that I am unsuitable material? Only geniuses can change their
plans with instantaneous speed. When will my contract release be ready?

(57:51):
What said Watt in a swimming glorious days Oh of course,
hum your contract release? Well now, well, Saint Cyr would
stubbornly cling to past errors until summit goes broke. Martin
pointed out, only a genius like Tolliver Watt strikes when
the iron is hot, when he sees a chance to

(58:12):
exchange failure for success. A Martin for an Eden. Hmm,
Watt said, yes, very well. Then his long face grew
shrewd very well, you get your release after I've signed Eden.
There you put your finger on the heart of the matter,
Martin approved, after a brief moment of somewhat dashed thought,

(58:36):
miss Eden is still undecided. If you left the transaction
to somebody like Saint Cear's say, it would be botched. Erica,
you have your car here, How quickly could you drive
Tolliver Watt to Laguna. He's the only person with the
skill to handle this situation. What sit you?

Speaker 2 (58:55):
Oh?

Speaker 3 (58:56):
Yes, of course, Nick, we could start right away, but
Watt said. The Disraeli matrix swept on into oratorical periods
that made the walls ring. The Golden Tongue played arpeggios
with logic, I see, the dazed Watt murmured, allowing himself
to be shepherded toward the door. Yes, yes, of course.

(59:19):
Then suppose you drop over to my place tonight, Martin.
After I get the Eden signature, I'll have your release prepared.
Hum functional genius. His voice fell to a low, crooning mutter,
and he moved quietly out of the door. Martin laid
a hand on Erica's arm as she followed him. Wait
a second, he said, Keep him away from the studio

(59:42):
until we get the release. Saint Cyr can still out
shout me any time, but he's hooked. We nick, Erica said,
looking searchingly into his face. What's happened till you to night?
Martin said, hastily, hearing a distant bellow that might be
the voy voice of Saint Cyr approaching. When I have time,

(01:00:03):
I'm going to sweep you off your feet. Do you
know that I've worshiped you from afar all my life?
But right now, get wat out of the way. Hurry.
Erica cast a glance of amazed bewilderment at him as
he thrust her out of the door. Martin thought there
was a certain element of pleasure in the surprise. Where

(01:00:24):
is Tolliver? The loud, annoyed roar of Saint Cyr made
Martin WinCE. The director was displeased. It appeared because only
in costumes could a pair of trousers be found large
enough to fit him. He took it as a personal affront.
What have you done with Tolliver? He bellowed, louder please,

(01:00:45):
Martin said, insolently, I can't hear you. Dee Dee, Saint
Cyr shouted, whirling toward the lovely star, who hadn't stirred
from her rapturous admiration of Dee dee in technicolor overhead,
Where is Tolliver? Martin started? He had quite forgotten d D.
You don't know, do you?

Speaker 1 (01:01:05):
D D?

Speaker 3 (01:01:06):
He prompted, quickly shut up. Saint Cyr snapped, answer me you.
He added a brisk polysyllable and mix olidian with the
desired effect. D D wrinkled her flawless brow. Tolliver went away.
I think I've got it mixed up with the picture.
He went home to meet Nick Martin, didn't he see Martin? Interrupted, relieved,

(01:01:31):
no use, expecting d D too, But Martin is here,
Saint Cyr shouted, think think twas the contract release in
the rushes? D D asked, vaguely, a contract release. Saint
Cyr roared, what is this? Never? Will I permit it? Never? Never? Never?

(01:01:53):
Dede answer me? Where has what gone? He went somewhere
with that agent, Dedee said, or was that in the
rushes too? But where where? Where? They went to Atlantis?
Dee Dee announced, with an air of faint triumph. No,

(01:02:14):
shouted Saint Cyr. That was the picture. The mermaid came
from Atlantis, not what Tolliver didn't say he was coming
from Atlantis, Dee Dee murmured, unruffled. He said he was
going to Atlantis. Then he was going to meet Nick
Martin at his house tonight and give him his contract release.
When Saint Cyr demanded, furiously, think, Dede, what time did

(01:02:40):
d D Martin said, stepping forward with suave confidence. You
can't remember a thing, can you? But Dede was too
subnormal to react even to a Disraeli matrix. She merely
smiled placidly at him. Out of my way, you, writer,
roared Saint Cyr, advancing upon Martin. You will get no contract.

(01:03:03):
Release you do not waste Saint Cyr's time and get
away with it. This I will not endure. I fix
you as I fixed ed Cassidy. Martin drew himself up
and froze Saint Cyr with an insolent smile, his hand
toyed with an imaginary monocle. Golden periods were hanging at
the end of his tongue. There only remained to hypnotize

(01:03:25):
Saint Cyr as he had hypnotized want. He drew a
deep breath to unleash the floods of his eloquence, and
Saint Cyr, also too subhuman to be impressed by urbanity,
hit Martin a cloud on the jaw. It could never
have happened in the British Parliament and of Part one

(01:03:50):
of the Ego Machine by Henry Kuttner