"Well, I can't," Burris snapped. "And can any of us read each other's mind?" Malone shook his head. "No, sir," he said. Burris nodded. "That's the problem," he said. "That's the case I'm sending you out to crack." This time, the silence was a long one. At last, Malone said: "What problem, sir?" "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.