"Mind reading," Burris said. "There's a spy at work in the Nevada
plant, Kenneth. And the spy is a telepath."
* * * * *
The video tapes were very clear and very complete. There were a great
many of them, and it was long after nine o'clock when Kenneth Malone
decided to take a break and get some fresh air. Washington was a good
city for walking, even at night, and Malone liked to walk. Sometimes
he pretended, even to himself, that he got his best ideas while
walking, but he knew perfectly well that wasn't true. His best ideas
just seemed to come to him, out of nowhere, precisely as the situation
demanded them.
He was just lucky, that was all. He had a talent for being lucky. But
nobody would ever believe that. A record like his was spectacular,
even in the annals of the FBI, and Burris himself believed that the
record showed some kind of superior ability.
Malone knew that wasn't true, but what could he do about it? After
all, he didn't want to resign, did he? It was kind of romantic and
exciting to be an FBI agent, even after three years. A man got a
chance to travel around a lot and see things, and it was interesting.
The pay was pretty good, too.
The only trouble was that, if he didn't quit, he was going to have to
find a telepath.
The notion of telepathic spies just didn't sound right to Malone. It
bothered him in a remote sort of way. Not that the idea of telepathy
itself was alien to him--after all, he was even more aware than the
average citizen that research had been going on in that field for
something over a quarter of a century, and that the research was even
speeding up.
But the cold fact that a telepathy-detecting device had been invented
somehow shocked his sense of propriety, and his notions of privacy. It
wasn't decent, that was all.
There ought to be something sacred, he told himself angrily.
He stopped walking and looked up. He was on Pennsylvania Avenue,
heading toward the White House.
That was no good. He went to the corner and turned off, down the
block. He had, he told himself, nothing at all to see the President
about.
Not yet, anyhow.
The streets were dark and very peaceful. _I get my best ideas while
walking_, Malone said without convincing himself. He thought back to
the video tapes.
The report on the original use of the machine itself had been on one
of the first tapes, and Malone could still see and hear it. That was
one thing he did have, he reflected; his memory was pretty good.
Burris had been the first speaker on the tapes, and he'd given the
serial and reference number in a cold, matter-of-fact voice. His face
had been perfectly blank, and he looked just like the head of the FBI
people were accustomed to seeing on their TV and newsreel screens.
Malone wondered what had happened to him between the time the tapes
had been made and the time he'd sent for Malone.
Maybe the whole notion of telepathy was beginning to get him, Malone
thought.
Burris recited the standard tape-opening in a rapid mumble, like a
priest involved in the formula of the Mass: "Any person or agent
unauthorized for this tape please refrain from viewing further, under
penalties as prescribed by law." Then he looked off, out past the
screen to the left, and said: "Dr. Thomas O'Connor, of Westinghouse
Laboratories. Will you come here, Dr. O'Connor?"
Dr. O'Connor came into the lighted square of screen slowly, looking
all around him. "This is very fascinating," he said, blinking in the
lamplight. "I hadn't realized that you people took so many
precautions--"
He was, Malone thought, somewhere between fifty and sixty, tall and
thin with skin so transparent that he nearly looked like a living X-
ray. He had pale blue eyes and pale white hair, and, Malone thought,
if there ever were a contest for the best-looking ghost, Dr. Thomas
O'Connor would win it hands (or phalanges) down.
"This is all necessary for the national security," Burris said, a
little sternly.
"Oh," Dr. O'Connor said quickly. "I realize that, of course.
Naturally. I can certainly see that."
"Let's go ahead, shall we?" Burris said.