Robert Roberts was waiting, nervous as a cat, when Faircloth arrived
at the Security office. There were deep circles under his pale grey
eyes, and a dark stubble on his chin. He greeted Paul with a silent
handshake; then they went back into the rear office, with its modern
panelled wall looking out across the valley to the tall white buildings
of the Capitol. Once it had been an inspiring sight to Faircloth. Now
he hardly even noticed. A rocket rose in the morning air, leaving its
white vapor trail like a pillar of cloud behind it. The weekly Venus
rocket, probably, or maybe one of the dozens of speculator ships off
for Titan. Faircloth scowled and sank into a relaxer with a sigh. "I'm
sorry, Bob," he said. "It was a bust. I couldn't help it."
Roberts mixed a drink and shoved it across the desk to Paul; then he
touched off the end of a long black cigar. "What's done is done," he
said sourly. "You thought he was sewed up, and it turned out that he
wasn't." He turned worried eyes to Faircloth. "What we've got to know
is why he wasn't sewed up. Something went sour. What was it?"
Faircloth was silent for a long moment. Then he said: "I think the
whole approach is sour."
"Very possibly. How do you mean?"
"I mean we're outclassed, that's what. This Alien is out of our
league--way out." His eyes caught Roberts'. "He's a telepath, Bob, and
I don't mean halfway. He's not just a feeble, groping, half-baked,
half-trained, poorly developed Psi-High human. I mean we're dealing
with telepathic power no human Psi-High ever even dreamed of--"