dim light behind the glass-plated door, and the Ron-body entered the silent room. He saw his own hand reaching out to flick on the light switch. He saw his own face register dismay and annoyance at the quiet scene. Then the Ron-body turned and was about to leave.

"Stay awhile," Ron said. He stood up, revealing the weapon, holding it in both of his small hands for firm control of the trigger.

"Well," his voice said.

"Yes, well," Ron answered. "Very well, thanks. Only I won't speak for you, Scholar. Because I don't think you're well at all. I think you're out of your mind...."

The Ron-lips curled.

"Naturally. Genius is akin to madness. It's one of the deep-rooted convictions of the human ego. It reflects their suspicion, their distrust of the superintelligent... I understand you, Mr. Carver."

"And I don't understand you! You're something new to me. Maybe you're better than us, maybe you're worse. I don't know, Scholar. But that's not why I'm going to kill you--"

"Oh?"

"No! You think I want to kill you for the sake of the world? Because you're a menace to homo sapiens? Because of your contempt for us ordinary mortals? Hell, no, Scholar! I'm too ordinary myself. I'm killing you for me, for Ron Carver! Because I'm sore! Just plain sore!"

He raised the gun.

For a moment, Ron didn't know what had happened. Something else blurred his vision, a fast-moving figure bulking up in front of his target. It was only when he heard the voice that he recognized the intruder as Dr. Minton, and he saw then that the doctor had rescued the Scholar from certain death.

"Stop, Ron--"

"Doctor! Get out of the way!"

"No, Ron. You don't know what you're doing--"

The old man was shielding the Ron-body with his own. Ron put the weapon down.

"But why?" he said.

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