that was only melodramatic nonsense.
He was no Monte Cristo, come to wreak vengeance on his cruel
oppressors. And he was no madman, no victim of a monomaniacal
obsession. What he was doing was the result of lengthy and logical
consideration.

If Harry Collins, longtime fugitive from a government treatment
center, tried to take his story to the people, he'd be silenced
without a hearing. But his story must be heard. There was only one way
to arrest the attention of a nation--with the report of a rifle.

A bullet in Leffingwell's brain; that was the solution of the problem.
Overnight the assassin would become a national figure. They'd
undoubtedly try him and undoubtedly condemn him, but first he'd have
his day in court. He'd get a chance to speak out. He'd give all the
voiceless, unorganized victims of the Leff Law a reason for
rebellion--and offer them an example. If Leffingwell had to die, it
would be in a good cause. Moreover, he deserved to die. Hadn't he
killed men, women, infants, without mercy?

_But it's not revenge_, Harry repeated. _And I know what I'm doing.
Maybe I was disturbed before, but I'm sane now. Perfectly logical.
Perfectly calm. Perfectly controlled._

Yes, and now his sane, logical, calm, controlled eyes noted that the
distant door was opening, and he sighted through the 'scope and
brought his sane, logical, calm, controlled hand up along the barrel
to the trigger. He could see the two men emerging, and the shorter,
plumper of the two was Leffingwell. He squinted at the high forehead
with its receding hairline; it was a perfect target. A little squeeze
now and he knew what would happen. In his sane, logical, calm,
controlled mind he could visualize the way the black hole would appear
in the center of that forehead, while behind it would be the torn and
dripping redness flecked with gray--

"What are you doing?"

Harry whirled, staring; staring down at the infant who stood smiling
beside him. It _was_ an infant, that was obvious enough, and implicit
in the diminutive stature, the delicate limbs and the oversized head.
But infants do not wear the clothing of pre-adolescent boys, they do
not enunciate with clarity, they do not stare coolly and knowingly at
their elders. They do not say, "Why do you want to harm Dr.
Leffingwell?"

Harry gazed into the wide eyes. He couldn't speak.

"You're sick, aren't you?" the child persisted. "Let me call the
doctor. He can help you."

Harry swung the ri