The Jaguar had pulled up behind us. I liked the sound of it, even idling. They don't put the full-race mill into the sedan, but it's no truck engine, either. Dr. Perry got out of the bucket seat beside the driver and came to meet me as I went back there. The driver, a big man, got out and went around to get something out of the trunk, presently disappearing into the darkness. I thought this a little peculiar, but maybe I was not supposed to notice. The car had a buggy-whip antenna for radio-telephone communication. I thought it was probably Mac's personal vehicle.

"How's the patient?" Dr. Perry asked.

"Alive," I said. "Bitter."

"With some justification, I would say."

"I know," I said. "I've already been told I should have treated him more gently. Wait till it's your head he's swinging a stick at from behind."

"I wasn't referring to that," Perry said. "The female agent who died at your hands-I understand there was some emotional involvement."

I looked at him for a moment. The headlights bounced enough light our way that I could see him clearly: a clean-cut young professional man with horn-rimmed glasses, neatly dressed, in good physical condition. I wondered what quirk of psychology or fortune had brought him to us-the Foreign Legion of the undercover services-but it isn't something one asks. Maybe he was just getting himself a wide range of medical experience before settling down to a profitable society practice.

I asked, "Why did Jean die, Dr. Perry?"

He blinked. Obviously, he thought it was a strange question for me to ask. After all, I was the guy who'd killed her, wasn't I?

"Why, I don't know," he said. "I wasn't there, how could I say? I rather assumed-" He stopped, embarrassed.

"That my hand slipped? It seems to be a common assumption in these parts," I said. "And a convenient one, for some people."

"If you're implying there was something wrong with Jean-"

I said, "Obviously, there was something wrong. With Jean, or you, or me, or somebody else. She's dead. Maybe you should have examined my hands before clearing me for the job, Doctor. You might have prevented the slip, if there was a slip."

His voice was stiff. "Maybe I should have."

"Maybe," I said, "you should examine them now."

He didn't get it at once. He said impatiently, "Really, I'd better see to my patient-"

"Look at them," I said gently. "The right one is of special interest, Doctor." There was a little silence, as he saw what I was driving at. I said, "Note the weapon. It uses the.38 Special cartridge firing a one-hundred-and-fifty-grain bullet with a muzzle velocity of eleven hundred and fifty feet per second and a muzzle energy of three hundred and sixty-five foot pounds. Now note what happens when I exert pressure on the trigger-"

"Eric." His voice was professionally calm and soothing. "Eric, put the gun away. There's no need for hostility. I am certainly not trying to duck my share of the responsibility for your unfortunate mishap. Careful!"

"Don't panic, Doc," I said. "It's a double-action revolver. Not much happens immediately as the trigger moves back, except that the cylinder rotates, bringing a new cartridge into line and the hammer rises, so. This being a pocket pistol, the hammer has no conventional spur, just a little grooved cocking piece that won't hang up in the clothing. Now I catch it with my thumb before the hammer can drop, so."

He couldn't help a sharp intake of breath as the hammer fell a fraction of an inch before being arrested by my thumb.

"Eric-"

I said, "Let us review the situation, Doctor. There is now a loaded cartridge lined up with the firing pin and, of course, with the gun barrel. The trigger is back as far as it will go, rendering all safety devices inoperative. The hammer is fully cocked, held only by my thumb. The muzzle is aimed at your abdomen. The range is about three feet. I ask for your prognosis, Doctor. What will happen when your driver, sneaking up behind me, clouts me alongside the head with a blackjack or gives me a karate chop to the neck-and the hammer slips out from under my nerveless thumb? I think the matter deserves our most careful consideration don't you?"

There was a space of complete silence. The big man behind me, belatedly aware of the situation, had stopped moving. Dr. Perry licked his lips, watching the gun with fascination.

I said, "There is a time element involved, of course. It's quite a strain, holding a gun like this. When my thumb gets tired, and maybe a little slippery with sweat- Don't forget, I'm the guy whose hand keeps slipping and killing people."

"Eric," he said. "Eric, don't be hasty. I can understand the resentment you feel towards me, but I swear the instructions I gave you seemed perfectly safe, well within the bounds of what the subject could tolerate-"

I laughed. "Doctor, you flatter yourself. I'm not mad at you, although I do think you might at least wait for the autopsy results before talking as if it were all my fault. After all, you had a hand in it, too. But the hell with that. I'm not pointing a gun at you for personal reasons."

"Then what-"

I said, "You got a call from Washington while you were driving here, didn't you? You were told that my attitude seemed to be somewhat uncertain, and that it might be a good idea to make absolutely sure that I came in as ordered. Am I correct?"

He hesitated. Then he nodded reluctantly.

"All right," I said. "Well, here's a message to take back. Tell the man upstairs that limited measures have failed and the full mad-dog treatment may be indicated. Tell him that I recommend a silenced rifle with a telescopic sight. A shotgun could do the job, but it would be pretty damn noisy and messy. A good man with a pistol might deliver, but he'd be taking chances. I may have a superman complex, Doctor, but I'm not laboring under the delusion that I'm bullet-proof."

"Eric, you're talking wildly-"

"Shut up," I said, "and listen carefully. The one thing I want you to impress on him is that he must not make the mistake of trying to take me alive a second time. You're getting away with it tonight. No one else will. Do you understand? I may not be the best man he's got, but I'm pretty damn good; plenty good enough to handle anybody he sends after me with orders not to kill. Tell him not to waste trained men by ordering out to get me handicapped by silly instructions like that. They simply won't come back. Is that clear?"

Perry licked his lips again, watching the cocked revolver in my hand. "It's clear."

"I've been a member of this organization a long time, off and on," I said. "I know how it works. I know that if he really wants me, he can get me-dead. I'll even make it easy for him. I'm sticking to my cover as Lash Petroni, hoodlum. If I'm mowed down one dark night, it'll just go down in the records as another syndicate kill. If that's what he wants, tell him to go ahead. I won't even duck. I've got other things to do besides watching the bushes for hidden guns."

Perry asked quickly, "Other things? What other things do you have to do, Eric?"

"Never mind," I said. "He'll know. Just tell him the choice. He can have me killed. That's all he can do without risking a massacre that'll hit front pages clear across the country. I won't stand still for the dog-catcher with the net. I won't stand still for interference of any kind. If I bump into one of the boys, I'll go for him without asking questions. A savage battle to the death between agents of a super-secret government organization wouldn't look very nice in the headlines, would it? The publicity would put him out of business, and he knows it. And it's just what I'll give him if he tries any more of this horsing around. Tell him to send out the elimination squads or forget it. I'll be in touch when I have something to report."