 Why doesn't Zarwell shoot Bergstrom?
Transcriber’s note: This story was published in Galaxy magazine, June 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. [p 135 ] By CHARLES V. DE VET monkey on his back Under the cloud of cast-off identities lay the shape of another man— was it himself? Illustrated by DILLON HE was walking endlessly down a long, glass-walled corridor. Bright sunlight slanted in through one wall, on the blue knapsack across his shoulders. The truth lurked in some corner of his consciousness, but it was not reached by surface awareness. At the sight of him a man leaning negligently against a stone pillar, to his right but within vision, straightened and barked an order to him, “Halt!” [p 136 ] Two men hurried through a doorway of a small anteroom to his left, calling to him. With no break in pace he veered into an opening beside the escalator. At the first turn he saw that the aisle merely circled the stairway, coming out into the depot again on the other side. He slipped a coin into a pay slot, opened the zipper on his bag and pulled out a flat briefcase. It took him only a few seconds to push the case into the compartment, lock it and slide the key along the floor beneath the locker. But the fact that they had been expecting him meant that others would very probably be waiting outside. A tall ruffian, copper-brown face damp with perspiration and body oil, grabbed him by the jacket and slammed him back against the lockers. Bergstrom’s neat-boned, fair-skinned face betrayed no emotion other than an introspective stillness of his normally alert gaze. The office window was open, but it let in no freshness, only the mildly rank odor that pervaded all the planet’s habitable area. The floor beneath Zarwell’s feet assumed abruptly the near transfluent consistency of a damp sponge. It rose in a foot-high wave and rolled gently toward the far wall. The floor continued its transmutation, and Zarwell sank deep into viscous depths. Zarwell grunted acknowledgment and pushed himself to his feet, apparently unaware that his shirt clung damply to his body. Zarwell was careful not to rest his hand on the flesh searing surface of the stone. The evening meal hour was approaching when he reached the Flats, on the way to his apartment. The feeling was there again, like a scene waiting only to be gazed at directly to be perceived.
 Zarwell is a freedom fighter, not a cold-blooded killer.
 Zarwell may have been a killer in the old life, but not now.  Zarwell is trying to start a new life. He doesn't want to kill anymore.  Zarwell is a freedom fighter, not a cold-blooded killer.  Zarwell likes Bergstrom. They are friends.