emanded
nervously.

"Quite sure, Mr.--eh--Mr. Martin."

"I _am_ Mr. Martin," cried Martin with terrified defiance. "By all the
laws of God and man, Mr. Martin I am and Mr. Martin I will remain, in
spite of all attempts by rebellious dogs to depose me from my rightful
place."

"Yes, sir. The broom-closet, you say, sir?"

"The broom-closet. Immediately. But swear not to tell another soul, no
matter how much you're threatened. I'll protect you."

"Very well, sir. Is that all?"

"Yes. Tell Miss Ashby to hurry. Hang up now. The line may be tapped. I
have enemies."

There was a click. Martin replaced his own receiver and furtively
surveyed the broom-closet. He told himself that this was ridiculous.
There was nothing to be afraid of, was there? True, the broom-closet's
narrow walls were closing in upon him alarmingly, while the ceiling
descended....

Panic-stricken, Martin emerged from the closet, took a long breath, and
threw back his shoulders. "N-not a thing to be afraid of," he said.
"Who's afraid?" Whistling, he began to stroll down the hall toward the
staircase, but midway agoraphobia overcame him, and his nerve broke.

He ducked into his own office and sweated quietly in the dark until he
had mustered up enough courage to turn on a lamp.

The Encyclopedia Britannica, in its glass-fronted cabinet, caught his
eye. With noiseless haste, Martin secured _ITALY_ to _LORD_ and opened
the volume at his desk. Something, obviously, was very, very wrong. The
robot had said that Martin wasn't going to like being Ivan the Terrible,
come to think of it. But was Martin wearing Ivan's character-matrix?
Perhaps he'd got somebody else's matrix by mistake--that of some arrant
coward. Or maybe the Mad Tsar of Russia had really been called Ivan the
Terrified. Martin flipped the rustling pages nervously. Ivan, Ivan--here
it was.

Son of Helena Glinska ... married Anastasia Zakharina-Koshkina ...
private life unspeakably abominable ... memory astonishing, energy
indefatigable, ungovernable fury--great natural ability, political
foresight, anticipated the ideals of Peter the Great--Martin shook his
head.

Then he caught his breath at the next line.

Ivan had lived in an atmosphere of apprehension, imagining that every
man's hand was against him.

"Just like me," Martin murmured. "But--but there was more to Ivan than
just cowardice. I don't understand."

"Differential," the robot had said, "depends on environment as much as