Moore shook his head emphatically. "I mean I _have_ done it," he
insisted. "Mind control."
"I see," the doctor said. On his pad he wrote 'hallucinations,'
although he was jumping the gun slightly on that. Still, he felt sure
of himself, and the pencil still had some eraser left on it. Under the
word he drew a crude and rather vulgar picture of a rooster chasing a
hen.
"That's why I came to you, Dr. Rawlings," Moore went on. "It's not that
I'm neurotic or anything. It's just that I can't control this power,
and I'd like to." He shuddered slightly. "_I'd better._"
"And you want me to help you," the psychiatrist said. "Which, of
course, I'll be only too happy to do. But first, do you have any
outward signs that you have--eh--crossed the barrier. That is, do
you--well, see things, for example."
"Yes, I do," Moore said, remembering, and the psychiatrist pencilled
two triumphant lines beneath the word 'hallucinations' on his deskpad.
"It began about two weeks after I first made my mathematical discovery.
I was lying awake in bed thinking of my theories and how, if ever they
could be applied directly to the physical world, doors would be opened
to any part of the universe. Just about then a knock came at the door."