said, glaring at Martin.
"I have spent nearly thirteen weeks on this man and I do not intend to
waste my valuable time on another. I tell you he is simply trying to
break his contract--tricks, tricks, tricks."

"Are you?" Watt asked Martin coldly.

"Not now," 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 mesalliance. But for the first time I'm not
sure I agree. I begin to see possibilities, even in the tripe St. Cyr
has been stuffing down the public's throat for years. Of course I can't
work miracles all 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 Existentialist hopelessness of it all by ending the film
with a full four hundred feet of seascapes--nothing but vast, heaving
stretches of ocean," he ended, on a note of complacent satisfaction.

A vast, heaving stretch of Raoul St. Cyr rose from his chair and
advanced upon Martin.

"Outside, outside!" he shouted. "Back to your cell, you double-crossing
vermin! I, Raoul St. Cyr, command it. Outside, before I rip you limb
from limb--"

Martin spoke quickly. His voice was calm, but he knew he would have to
work fast.

"You see, Watt?" 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."

Goaded, St. Cyr rolled forward in a ponderous lunge, 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 debonaire. Something was going on which Watt did
not understand.

"All right, Raoul," 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!" St. Cyr cried warningly. "They're
cunning, these creatures. Cunning as rats. You never know--"

Martin raised the microphone with a lordly gesture. Ignoring the
director, he said commandingly into the mike, "Put me through to the
commissary. The bar, please. Yes. I want to order a dri