t 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?"

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 flo