overthe cot--and Zarwell's left hand shot up and locked about his throat,joined almost immediately by the right.
The man's mouth opened and he tried to yell as he threw himselffrantically backward. He clawed at the hands about his neck. When thatfailed to break the grip he suddenly reversed his weight and drove hisfist at Zarwell's head.
Zarwell pulled the struggling body down against his chest and held itthere until all agitated movement ceased. He sat up then, letting thebody 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 episodesare beginning to tie together," he said, with an attempt atnonchalance. "The next couple should do it."
Zarwell did not answer. His memory seemed on the point of completereturn, and he sat quietly, hopefully. However, nothing more came and hereturned his attention to his more immediate problem.
Opening a button on his shirt, he pulled back a strip of plastic clothjust below his rib cage and took out a small flat pistol. He held it inthe 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 thesight 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. Yetsurprisingly, after the first start, he showed little fear. Zarwell hadthought the man a bit soft, too adjusted to a life of ease and someprestige to meet danger calmly. Curiosity restrained his trigger finger.
"Why would I be foolish?" he asked. "Your Meninger oath of inviolableconfidence?"
Bergstrom shook his head. "I know it's been broken before. But you needme. You're not through, you know. If you killed me you'd still have totrust some other analyst."
"Is that the best you can do?"
"No." Bergstrom was angry now. "But use that logical mind you'resupposed to have! Scenes before this have shown what kind of man youare. Just because this last happened here on St. Martin's makes littledifference. If I was going to turn you in to the police, I'd have doneit before this."
Zarwell debated with himself the truth of what the other had said. "Whydidn't you turn me in?" he asked.
"Because you're no mad-dog killer!" Now that the crisis seemed to bepast, Bergstrom spoke more calmly, even allowed himself to relax."You're still pretty much in the fog about yourself. I read more inthose 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 hispistol away in a trouser pocket.
Bergstrom brushed the question aside with one hand. "Your name makeslittle difference. You've used many. But you are an idealist. Yourkillings were necessary to bring justice to the places you visited. Bynow you're almost a legend among the human worlds. I'd like to talk morewith you on that later."
While Zarwell considered, Bergstrom pressed his advantage. "One morescene might do it," he said. "Should we try again--if you trust me, thatis?"
Zarwell made his decision quickly. "Go ahead," he answered.
All Zarwell's attention seemed on the cigar he lit as he rode down theescalator, but he surveyed the terminal carefully over the rim of hishand. He spied no suspicious loungers.
Behind the escalator he groped along the floor beneath the lockers untilhe 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 privatecompartment and went in.
As he zipped open the briefcase he surveyed his features in the mirror.A small muscle at the corner of one eye twitched spasmodically. Onecheek wore a frozen quarter smile. Thirty-six hours under the paralysiswas longer than advisable. The muscles should be rested at least everytwenty hours.
Fortunately his natural features would serve as an adequate disguisenow.
He adjusted the ring setting on the pistol-shaped instrument that hetook from his case, and carefully rayed several small areas of his face,loosening muscles that had been tight too long. He sighed gratefullywhen he finished, massaging his cheeks and forehead with considerablepleasure. Another glance in the mirror satisfied him with the changesthat had been made. He turned to his briefcase again and exchanged thegun for a small syringe, which he pushed into a trouser pocket, and asingle-edged razor blade.
Removing his fiber-cloth jacket he slashed it into strips with the razorblade and flushed it down the disposal bowl. With the sleeves of hisblouse rolled up he had the appearance of a typical workman as hestrolled from the compartment.
Back at the locker he replaced the briefcase and, with a wad of gum,glued the key to the bottom of the locker frame.
One step more. Taking the syringe from his pocket, he plunged the needleinto his forearm and tossed the instrument down a waste chute. He tookthree more steps and paused uncertainly.
When he looked about him it was with the expression of a man waking froma vivid dream.
"Quite ingenious," Graves murmured admiringly. "You had your mindalready preconditioned for the shot. But why would you deliberately giveyourself amnesia?"
"What better disguise than to believe the part you're playing?"
"A good man must have done that job on your mind," Bergstrom commented."I'd have hesitated to try it myself. It must have taken a lot of truston your part."
"Trust and money," Zarwell said drily.
"Your memory's back then?"
Zarwell nodded.
"I'm glad to hear that," Bergstrom assured him. "Now that you're wellagain I'd like to introduce you to a man named Vernon Johnson. Thisworld ..."
Zarwell stopped him with an upraised hand. "Good God, man, can't you seethe reason for all this? I'm tired. I'm trying to quit."
"Quit?" Bergstrom did not quite follow him.
"It started on my home colony," Zarwell explained listlessly. "A gang ofhoods had taken over the government. I helped organize a movement to getthem out. There was some bloodshed, but it went quite well. Severalmonths later an unofficial envoy from another world asked several of usto give them a hand on the same kind of job. The political conditionsthere were rotten. We went with him. Again we were successful. It seemsI have a kind of genius for that sort of thing."
He stretched out his legs and regarded them thoughtfully. "I learnedthen the truth of Russell's saying: 'When the oppressed win theirfreedom they are as oppressive as their former masters.' When they wentbad, I opposed them. This time I failed. But I escaped again. I havequite a talent for that also.
"I'm not a professional do-gooder." Zarwell's tone appealed to Bergstromfor 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 getsout, and I'm right back in a fight again. It's like the proverbialmonkey on my back. I can't get rid of it."
He rose. "That disguise and memory planting were supposed to get me outof it. I should have known it wouldn't work. But this time I'm not goingto be drawn back in! You and your Vernon Johnson can do your ownrevolting. I'm through!"
Bergstrom did not argue as he left.
Restlessness drove Zarwell from his flat the next day--a legal holidayon St. Martin's. At a railed-off lot he stopped and loitered in theshadow of an adjacent building watching workmen drilling an excavationfor a new structure.
When a man strolled to his side and stood watching the workmen, he wasnot surprised. He waited for the other to speak.
"I'd like to talk to you, if you can spare a few minutes," the strangersaid.
Zarwell turned and studied the man without answering. He was mediumtall, with the body of an athlete, though perhaps ten years beyond theage of sports. He had a manner of contained energy. "You're Johnson?" heasked.
The man nodded.
Zarwell tried to feel the anger he wanted to feel, but somehow it wouldnot come. "We have nothing to talk about," was the best he could manage.
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br /> "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 leastto be courteous. He inclined his head toward a curb wastebox with a flattop. "Should we sit?"
Johnson smiled agreeably and they walked over to the box and sat down.
"When this colony was first founded," Johnson began without preamble,"the administrative body was a governor, and a council of twelve. Theirsuccessors were to be elected biennially. At first they were. Thenthings changed. We haven't had an election now in the last twenty-threeyears. St.
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