tting and planning. So this is your headquarters, is it?
All night your hired dogs have been at my heels, driving me like a
wounded caribou to--"

"We've got to be going," Erika said desperately. "There's just time to
catch the next carib--the next plane east." She reached for the contract
release, but Watt suddenly put it in his pocket. He turned his chair
toward Martin.

"Will you give us an option on your next play?" he demanded.

"Of course he will give us an option!" St. Cyr said, studying Martin's
air of bravado with an experienced eye. "Also, there is to be no
question of a charge of assault, for, if there is I will beat you. So it
is in Mixo-Lydia. In fact, you do not even want a release from your
contract, Martin. It is all a mistake. I will turn you into a St. Cyr
writer, and all will be well. So. Now you will ask Tolliver to tear up
that release, will you not--_ha_?"

"Of course you won't, Nick," Erika cried. "Say so!"

* * * * *

There was a pregnant silence. Watt watched with sharp interest. So did
the unhappy Erika, torn between her responsibility as Martin's agent and
her disgust at the man's abject cowardice. DeeDee watched too, her eyes
very wide and a cheerful smile upon her handsome face. But the battle
was obviously between Martin and Raoul St. Cyr.

Martin drew himself up desperately. Now or never he must force himself
to be truly Terrible. Already he had a troubled expression, just like
Ivan. He strove to look sinister too. An enigmatic smile played around
his lips. For an instant he resembled the Mad Tsar of Russia, except, of
course, that he was clean-shaven. With contemptuous, regal power Martin
stared down the Mixo-Lydian.

"You will tear up that release and sign an agreement giving us option on
your next play too, ha?" St. Cyr said--but a trifle uncertainly.

"I'll do as I please," Martin told him. "How would you like to be eaten
alive by dogs?"

"I don't know, Raoul," Watt said. "Let's try to get this settled even
if--"

"Do you want me to go over to Metro and take DeeDee with me?" St. Cyr
cried, turning toward Watt. "He _will_ sign!" And, reaching into an
inner pocket for a pen, the burly director swung back toward Martin.

"_Assassin!_" cried Martin, misinterpreting the gesture.

A gloating smile appeared on St. Cyr's revolting features.

"Now we have him, Tolliver," he said, with heavy triumph, and these
ominous words added the final stre