himself frantically backward. He clawed at the hands about his neck. When that failed to break the grip he suddenly reversed his weight and drove his fist at Zarwell’s head.

Zarwell pulled the struggling body down against his chest and held it there until all agitated movement ceased. He sat up then, letting the body slide to the floor.

The straps about his thighs came loose with little effort.

THE analyst dabbed at his upper lip with a handkerchief. “The episodes are beginning to tie together,” he said, with an attempt at [p144] nonchalance. “The next couple should do it.”

Zarwell did not answer. His memory seemed on the point of complete return, and he sat quietly, hopefully. However, nothing more came and he returned his attention to his more immediate problem.

Opening a button on his shirt, he pulled back a strip of plastic cloth just below his rib cage and took out a small flat pistol. He held it in the palm of his hand. He knew now why he always carried it.

Bergstrom had his bad moment. “You’re not going to …” he began at the sight of the gun. He tried again. “You must be joking.”

“I have very little sense of humor,” Zarwell corrected him.

“You’d be foolish!”

Bergstrom obviously realized how close he was to death. Yet surprisingly, after the first start, he showed little fear. Zarwell had thought the man a bit soft, too adjusted to a life of ease and some prestige to meet danger calmly. Curiosity restrained his trigger finger.

“Why would I be foolish?” he asked. “Your Meninger oath of inviolable confidence?”

Bergstrom shook his head. “I know it’s been broken before. But you need me. You’re not through, you know. If you killed me you’d still have to trust some other analyst.”

“Is that the best you can do?”

“No.” Bergstrom was angry now. “But use that logical mind you’re supposed to have! Scenes before this have shown what kind of man you are. Just because this last happened here on St. Martin’s makes little difference. If I was going to turn you in to the police, I’d have done it before this.”

Zarwell debated with himself the truth of what the other had said. “Why didn’t you turn me in?” he asked.

“Because you’re no mad-dog killer!” Now that the crisis seemed to be past, Bergstrom spoke more calmly, even allowed himself to relax. “You’re still pretty much in the fog about yourself. I read more in those comanalyses than you did. I even know who you are!”

Zarwell’s eyebrows raised.

“Who am I?” he asked, very interested now. Without attention he put his pistol away in a trouser pocket.

Bergstrom brushed the question aside with one hand. “Your name makes little difference. You’ve used many. But you are an idealist. Your killings were necessary to bring justice to the places you visited. By now you’re almost a legend among the human worlds. I’d like to talk more with you on that later.”

While Zarwell considered, Bergstrom pressed his advantage. “One more scene might do it,” he said. “Should we try again—if you trust me, that is?”

[p145]
Zarwell made his decision quickly. “Go ahead,” he answered.

ALL Zarwell’s attention seemed on the cigar he lit as he rode down the escalator, but he surveyed the terminal carefully over the rim of his hand. He spied no suspicious loungers.

Behind the escalator he groped along the floor beneath the lockers until he found his key. The briefcase was under his arm a minute later.

In the basement lave he put a coin in the pay slot of a private compartment and went in.

As he zipped open the briefcase he surveyed his features in the mirror. A small muscle at the corner of