 How does Meyerhoff feel about Zeckler?
Meyerhoff followed the huge, bear-like Altairian guard down the slippery flagstones of the corridor, sniffing the dead, musty air with distaste. Why, I've been in here for years—" "Look, Zeckler, the name is Meyerhoff, and I'm not your pal," Meyerhoff snapped. "These overgrown teddy-bears don't know what brotherhood means, nor humanity, either. I've got three million credits sitting in the Terran Consulate on Altair V, just waiting for me to walk in and pick them up. Meyerhoff sank down beside the man, his voice a tense whisper in the musty cell. Zeckler stood up shakily. I'm afraid, my friend, that your con-man days are over." Zeckler fished in the other man's pocket, extracted a cigarette, and lighted it with trembling fingers. In a way, he thought, it was a pity to see such a change in the rosy-cheeked, dapper, cocksure little man who had talked his way glibly in and out of more jams than Meyerhoff could count. Altair I had been recognized at once by the Trading Commission as a commercial prize of tremendous value, but early reports had warned of the danger of wildcat trading on the little, musty, jungle-like planet with its shaggy, three-eyed inhabitants—warned specifically against the confidence tactics so frequently used—but there was always somebody, Meyerhoff reflected sourly, who just didn't get the word. Zeckler puffed nervously on his cigarette, his narrow face a study in troubled concentration.
 Meyerhoff thinks that Zeckler is a fool.
 Meyerhoff thinks that Zeckler is a fool.  Meyerhoff thinks that Zeckler is a skilled con-man.  Meyerhoff thinks that Zeckler is misunderstood.  Meyerhoff thinks that Zeckler is an idiot.