"But it would not be advisable at
this moment. You are expressing anger, resentment, fear. By your
rigidly summary rejection--"
"Nuts," said Caswell, and pulled off the headband.
-- -- -- -- --
The silence was wonderful. Caswell stood up, yawned, stretched and
massaged the back of his neck. He stood in front of the humming black
machine and gave it a long leer.
"You couldn't cure me of a common cold," he told it.
Stiffly he walked the length of the living room and returned to the
Regenerator.
"Lousy fake!" he shouted.
Caswell went into the kitchen and opened a bottle of beer. His revolver
was still on the table, gleaming dully.
Magnessen! You unspeakable treacherous filth! You fiend incarnate! You
inhuman, hideous monster! Someone must destroy you, Magnessen! Someone....
Someone? He himself would have to do it. Only he knew the bottomless
depths of Magnessen's depravity, his viciousness, his disgusting lust
for power.
Yes, it was his duty, Caswell thought. But strangely, the knowledge
brought him no pleasure.
After all, Magnessen was his friend.
He stood up, ready for action. He tucked the revolver into his
right-hand coat pocket and glanced at the kitchen clock. Nearly
six-thirty.
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