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 from his
semi-recumbent position.

"Who?" he asked shakily. "_Who?_ St. Cyr--"

A hoarse 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 _Angelina Noel_ is simply--"

"I do not hear what you say," roared a heavy voice. "Your idea stinks.
Whatever it is. Be at Theater One for yesterday's rushes! At once!"

"But wait--"

St. Cyr belched and hung up. Martin's strangling hands tightened briefly
on the telephone. But it was no use. The real strangle-hold was the one
St. 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 of the hit play
_Angelina Noel_. Then had come St. Cyr....

A snob at heart, the director loved getting his clutches on hit plays
and name writers. Summit Studios, he had roared at Martin, would follow
the original play exactly and would give Martin the final okay on the
script, provided he signed a thirteen-week contract to help write 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 Erika Ashby had been in the hospital 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 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. "Or 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 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, placing a brimming glass in Martin's groping
fingers. Martin drank. Then he opened his