Martha dropped on top of my body and pressed me down. Her arms were around my chest as she forced air into my lungs. She beat my ribs sore when my heart faltered, and squeezed me when my breathing slowed. I felt the life coming back into me; it came in like the tide, with a fringe of needles-and-pins that flowed inward from fingers and toes and scalp. Martha pressed me down on the carpet and kissed me, full, open mouthed, passionate. It stirred my blood and my mind and I took a deep, shuddering breath. I looked up into her soft blue eyes and said, "Thanks--slut!" She kissed me again, pressing me down and writhing against me and obviously getting a kick out of my reaction. Then I came alive and threw her off with no warning. I sat up, and swung a roundhouse right that clipped her on the jaw and sent her rolling over and over. Her eyes glazed for a moment but she came out of it and looked pained and miserable. "You promised," she said huskily. "Promised?" "To kill Scarmann." "Yeah?" "You thought how you’d kill Scarmann for me, Steve." "Someday," I said flatly, "I may kill Scarmann, but it won’t be for you!" She tried to claw me but I clipped her again and this time I made it stick. She went out cold and she was still out like a frozen herring by the time Lieutenant Williamson arrived with his jetcopter squad to take her away. The last time I saw Martha Franklin, she was still trying to convince twelve Rhine Scholars and True that any woman with a body as beautiful as hers couldn’t possibly have committed any crime. She was good at it, but not that good. Funny. Mental sensitives always think they’re so damn superior to anyone else.