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Savagely Hunter lifted a chair and started to swing it at the transmitter. Instantly, Ann Saymer turned to face him, the blaster clasped tightly in her hand.

“No, Max.”

“But, Ann, those people outside are in desperate danger–“

“I’ve gone this far. I won’t turn back.” In her voice was the familiar drive, the ambition he knew so well. But now it seemed different, a twisted distortion of something he had once admired.

“We don’t need Eric Young,” she said. “He’s bungled everything. You and I, Max–” She caressed the transmitter affectionately. “With this, we’ll possess unlimited power.”

“You mean, Ann–” He choked on the words. “You came here of your own free will? You deliberately planned Mrs. Ames’ murder?”

“She was dangerous, Max. She guessed too much. We knew that when we monitored the call you made from the spaceport. But in the beginning we weren’t going to make you responsible. We thought the strangers in the house–your attempt to expose the other woman who called herself Mrs. Ames–would be enough to get you committed to a clinic. I didn’t want you to be hurt, Max.”

“Why, Ann?” His voice was dead, emotionless. “Because you loved me? Or because you wanted me to be your ace in the hole, if you failed to manage Eric Young the way you thought you could?”

“That doesn’t matter now, Max, dear. I thought Eric had what I needed. But I was misjudging you all along.”

“You’re still misjudging me, Ann. I’m going to smash this machine and afterward–“

“No you aren’t, Max,” she said coldly. “I’ll kill you first.”

Calmly she turned the dial on the blaster. He lifted the chair again, watching her face, still unable to accept what he knew was true. This was Ann Saymer, the woman he had loved. It was the same Ann whose ambition had driven her from the general school to a First in Psychiatry.

With a fighting man’s instinct, Hunter calculated his chances as he held the chair high above his head. It was Ann who had to die. He would accomplish nothing if he smashed her transmitter. She knew how to build another. If he threw the chair at her rather than the Exorciser and if he threw it hard enough–

From the door a fan of flame blazed out, gently touching Ann. She stood rigid in the first muscular tension of paralysis. Hunter dropped the chair, shattering the transmitter. He turned and saw Dawn in the doorway. Somewhere deep in his subconscious mind he had expected her. He was glad she was there.

“We’ve known for a long time we would have to break up their little partnership,” Dawn explained. “After I talked to you this morning, Captain, I persuaded the others to hold off for another day or so. A clinical experiment of my own.

“It was unkind of me, I suppose, to make you the guinea pig. But I wanted to watch your reactions while you fought your way to the truth. Now you know it all–more than you bargained for. And you know what we’re trying to do. Are you willing to join us?”

He looked at her.

“In your third alternative–the cautious, rational rebuilding?”

“After men understand themselves. When we’re able to answer one question: why did you and Ann Saymer, with identical backgrounds, and intelligence, and an identical socio-economic incentive, become such different personalities? What gives you a zero-zero adjustment index that nothing can shake? Not the psychiatric shock of war, Captain. Not physical pain alone or the treachery of the girl you love. We need you, Captain. We need to know what makes you tick.”

“That ‘we’ of yours. Just what does that embrace?”

“A cross-section of us all,” she told him. “Psychiatrists, executives in both cartels, union officials. We’ve been working at this for a good many years. We want to make our world over, yes. But this time with reason and without violence–without sacrificing the good we already have.”

“And you yourself, Dawn. Who are you?”