Keystone Kop after the
chase sequence, and knew it. Even if he killed Martin now, the element
of classic 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 except
for the soft music from the overhead screen which DeeDee had caused 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
Dailey about sailors, mermaids and her home in far Atlantis.

"And now," said Martin, turning with quiet authority 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 St. Cyr dictate
your decisions? Without you, he couldn't turn out a box-office success
if he had to. No, be quiet, Erika. I'm handling this, my pretty
creature."

Watt rose to his feet. "Sorry, I can't discuss it," he said. "St. Cyr
pictures make money, and you're an inexperien--"

"That's why I see the true situation so clearly," Martin said. "The
trouble with you is you draw a line between artistic 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, shape
that great mass of living, breathing humanity into a perfect
audience...."

"Sorry," Watt said, but not, bruskly. "I really have no time--ah--"

"Your genius has gone long enough unrecognized," Martin said hastily,
letting admiration ring in his golden voice. "You assume that St. 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
Phidias non-commercial? Was Michaelangelo? Commercialism is simply a
label for functionalism, and all great artists produce functional art.
The trivial details of Rubens' masterpieces were filled in by
assistants, were they not? But Rubens got the credit, not his hirelings.
The proof of the pudding's obvious. Why?" Cunningly gauging his
listener, Martin here broke off.

"