"Not a person--but I killed the thing you see on your desk."
He spun toward the desk. I saw the bunching of his shoulder muscles
under his jacket and my finger tensed, hovering against the trigger.
The black crystal on the desk top winked with reflected light.
"And what is that supposed to be?"
"The alien, Doctor. I used a flame on it. It was the only thing I could
think of that would be effective."
I thought the skin of his neck paled, but I couldn't be sure. Again I
was struck by the degree of his self-control. But perhaps he has no
emotions, I thought. Perhaps he doesn't feel anything at all--love
or hate, excitement or fear. He might be able to analyze them coldly
but he wouldn't understand them. The thought excited me. Here was a
weakness in the alien mind.
"You are a sick man, Mr. Cameron," Dr. Temple said quietly. "I realized
that you were ill when you talked to me on Saturday--but I did not then
believe you capable of murder. If you've really killed someone you are
in serious trouble. And you have also been hurt. Your hand--"
"I only need one good finger to kill you," I said. "I could have done
it as you walked through the door but I wanted you to know it was
coming."