"It's going to have an all-male cast," Erika said hastily. "And we're discussing contract releases, not options."
"He would give me an option if I had him here," St. Cyr growled, torturing his cigar horribly. "Why does everything conspire against an artist?" He waved a vast, hairy fist in the air. "Now I must break in a new writer, which is a great waste. Within a fortnight Martin would have been a St. Cyr writer. In fact, it is still possible."
"I'm afraid not, Raoul," Watt said resignedly. "You really shouldn't have hit Martin at the studio today."
"But—but he would not dare charge me with assault. In Mixo-Lydia—"
"Why, hello, Nick," DeeDee said, with a bright smile. "What are you hiding behind those curtains for?"
Every eye was turned toward the window draperies, just in time to see the white, terrified face of Nicholas Martin flip out of sight like a scared chipmunk's. Erika, her heart dropping, said hastily, "Oh, that isn't Nick. It doesn't look a bit like him. You made a mistake, DeeDee."
"Did I?" DeeDee asked, perfectly willing to agree.
"Certainly," Erika said, reaching for the contract release in Watt's hand. "Now if you'll just let me have this, I'll—"
"Stop!" cried St. Cyr in a bull's bellow. Head sunk between his heavy shoulders, he lumbered to the window and jerked the curtains aside.
"Ha!" the director said in a sinister voice. "Martin."