"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 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 one eye twitched spasmodically. One cheek wore a frozen quarter smile. Thirty-six hours under the paralysis was longer than advisable. The muscles should be rested at least every twenty hours. Fortunately his natural features would serve as an adequate disguise now. He adjusted the ring setting on the pistol-shaped instrument that he took from his case, and carefully rayed several small areas of his face, loosening muscles that had been tight too long. He sighed gratefully when he finished, massaging his cheeks and forehead with considerable pleasure. Another glance in the mirror satisfied him with the changes that had been made. He turned to his briefcase again and exchanged the gun for a small syringe, which he pushed into a trouser pocket, and a single-edged razor blade. Removing his fiber-cloth jacket he slashed it into strips with the razor blade and flushed it down the disposal bowl. With the sleeves of his blouse rolled up he had the appearance of a typical workman as he strolled 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.