“You’re a yellow-livered bastard,” Zarwell told him.

The grin faded from the oily face as the man stood up. He leaned over the 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 himself frantically backward. He clawed at the hands about his neck. When that failed to break the grip he suddenly reversed his weight and drove his fist at Zarwell’s head.

Zarwell pulled the struggling body down against his chest and held it there until all agitated movement ceased. He sat up then, letting the body 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 episodes are beginning to tie together,” he said, with an attempt at [p144]  nonchalance. “The next couple should do it.”

[p

144

]  

Zarwell did not answer. His memory seemed on the point of complete return, and he sat quietly, hopefully. However, nothing more came and he returned his attention to his more immediate problem.

Opening a button on his shirt, he pulled back a strip of plastic cloth just below his rib cage and took out a small flat pistol. He held it in the 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 the sight 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. Yet surprisingly, after the first start, he showed little fear. Zarwell had thought the man a bit soft, too adjusted to a life of ease and some prestige to meet danger calmly. Curiosity restrained his trigger finger.

“Why would I be foolish?” he asked. “Your Meninger oath of inviolable confidence?”

Bergstrom shook his head. “I know it’s been broken before. But you need 

 Prev. P 10/15 next