Roesler made no attempt to hurry me. He was a man certain of his control of the situation.
I kicked off my shorts, the last of my clothes, and for the first time felt ill at ease. Standing stripped to the raw before these men put me at a mental disadvantage. I feared them only to the point of discretion, but I had lost a bit of my poise. I sat back on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette, doing my best to appear unconcerned.
Roesler turned to the dark man. "The shade, Steve," he directed. "Pull it down a minute."
Steve did as he was told.
The fact that my skin glowed with a faint phosphorescent sheen in the semidarkness was no surprise to me.
Roesler leaned forward and the penknife, which he had set on one knee, slipped off. Without attention he caught it before it touched the floor.
Which confirmed my original suspicion. No one had reflexes that fast—except Zealley—and myself. I had estimated him correctly then. He had been too clever to expose himself to any searcher; he had disdained the prestige he might have acquired, staying in the background, but in a position where he could observe any pursuer if and when he appeared.
Roesler-Zealley had noted the brief play of understanding on my face and he nodded. "I had to be certain, Max," he said. "You've changed too, you know."
Which was true. The mites in our veins had altered us both considerably through the years. We had developed some small empathy with them and they often performed as we wished. It was not that they could read our thoughts. Their activities were probably only reactions to our emotional and glandular functions. Moreover, they acted as often in ways that suited their own designs, changing our body structures, and regulating our metabolisms, seemingly at random.
"What did you want with me, Max?" Zealley asked, still being very pleasant. "Did you come to join me in conquering the world?"