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?”
[p145]
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.