. I'm trying to quit."

"Quit?" Bergstrom did not quite follow him.

"It started on my home colony," Zarwell explained listlessly. "A gang of
hoods had taken over the government. I helped organize a movement to get
them out. There was some bloodshed, but it went quite well. Several
months later an unofficial envoy from another world asked several of us
to give them a hand on the same kind of job. The political conditions
there were rotten. We went with him. Again we were successful. It seems
I have a kind of genius for that sort of thing."

He stretched out his legs and regarded them thoughtfully. "I learned
then the truth of Russell's saying: 'When the oppressed win their
freedom they are as oppressive as their former masters.' When they went
bad, I opposed them. This time I failed. But I escaped again. I have
quite a talent for that also.

"I'm not a professional do-gooder." Zarwell's tone appealed to Bergstrom
for understanding. "I have only a normal man's indignation at injustice.
And now I've done my share. Yet, wherever I go, the word eventually gets
out, and I'm right back in a fight again. It's like the proverbial
monkey on my back. I can't get rid of it."

He rose. "That disguise and memory planting were supposed to get me out
of it. I should have known it wouldn't work. But this time I'm not going
to be drawn back in! You and your Vernon Johnson can do your own
revolting. I'm through!"

Bergstrom did not argue as he left.

Restlessness drove Zarwell from his flat the next day--a legal holiday
on St. Martin's. At a railed-off lot he stopped and loitered in the
shadow of an adjacent building watching workmen drilling an excavation
for a new structure.

When a man strolled to his side and stood watching the workmen, he was
not surprised. He waited for the other to speak.

"I'd like to talk to you, if you can spare a few minutes," the stranger
said.

Zarwell turned and studied the man without answering. He was medium
tall, with the body of an athlete, though perhaps ten years beyond the
age of sports. He had a manner of contained energy. "You're Johnson?" he
asked.

The man nodded.

Zarwell tried to feel the anger he wanted to feel, but somehow it would
not come. "We have nothing to talk about," was the best he could manage.

"Then will you just listen? After, I'll leave--if you tell me to."

Against his will he found himself liking the man, and wanting at least
to be courteous. He inclined his