wly bent until he
was half-crouching, his shoulders slumped as though bowed by the weight
of enormous back and shoulder muscles, and his arms swung forward until
their knuckles hung perilously near the floor.

Nicholas Martin had at last achieved a personality whose ecological norm
would put him on a level with Raoul St. Cyr.

"Nick!" Erika quavered.

Slowly Martin's jaw protruded till his lower teeth were hideously
visible. Gradually his eyelids dropped until he was peering up out of
tiny, wicked sockets. Then, slowly, a perfectly shocking grin broadened
Mr. Martin's mouth.

"Erika," he said throatily. "Mine!"

And with that, he shambled forward, seized the horrified girl in his
arms, and bit her on the ear.

"Oh, Nick," Erika murmured, closing her eyes. "Why didn't you ever--no,
no, _no_! Nick! Stop it! The contract release. We've got to--Nick, what
are you doing?" She snatched at Martin's departing form, but too late.

For all his ungainly and unpleasant gait, Martin covered ground fast.
Almost instantly he was clambering over Watt's desk as the most direct
route to that startled tycoon. DeeDee looked on, a little surprised. St.
Cyr lunged forward.

"In Mixo-Lydia--" he began. "Ha! So!" He picked up Martin and threw him
across the room.

"Oh, you beast," Erika cried, and flung herself upon the director,
beating at his brawny chest. On second thought, she used her shoes on
his shins with more effect. St. Cyr, no gentleman, turned her around,
pinioned her arms behind her, and glanced up at Watt's alarmed cry.

"Martin! What are you doing?"

There was reason for his inquiry. Apparently unhurt by St. Cyr's toss,
Martin had hit the floor, rolled over and over like a ball, knocked down
a floor-lamp with a crash, and uncurled, with an unpleasant expression
on his face. He rose crouching, bandy-legged, his arms swinging low, a
snarl curling his lips.

"You take my mate?" the pithecanthropic Mr. Martin inquired throatily,
rapidly losing all touch with the twentieth century. It was a rhetorical
question. He picked up the lamp-standard--he did not have to bend to do
it--tore off the silk shade as he would have peeled foliage from a
tree-limb, and balanced the weapon in his hand. Then he moved forward,
carrying the lamp-standard like a spear.

"I," said Martin, "kill."

He then endeavored, with the most admirable single-heartedness, to carry
out his expressed intention. The first thrust of the blunt, improvised