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The waiter brought the bill, dropping it on the table between them.

“Lives will be saved in the long run,” Alcala said obstinately. “Individual deaths are not important in the long run.”

“That is hardly the philosophy for a doctor, is it?” asked Camba with open irony, taking the bill and rising.

They went out of the restaurant in silence. Camba’s ‘copter stood at the curb.

“Would you care for a lift home, Doctor Alcala?” The offer was made with the utmost suavity.

Alcala hesitated fractionally. “Why, yes, thank you.” It would not do to give the investigator any reason for suspicion by refusing.

As the ‘copter lifted into the air, Camba spoke with a more friendly note in his voice, as if he humored a child. “Come, Alcala, you’re a doctor dedicated to saving lives. How can you find sympathy for a murderer?”

Alcala sat in the dark, looking through the windshield down at the bright street falling away below. “I’m not a practicing medico; only one night a week do I come to the hospital. I’m a research man. I don’t try to save individual lives. I’m dedicated to improving the average life, the average health. Can you understand that? Individuals may be sick and individuals may die, but the average lives on. And if the average is better, then I’m satisfied.”