He led her away from the door to an alcove in the lobby where they could talk without being overheard. "Can you get hold of Sir Lewis at this time of night?" he asked. "Sir Lewis?" she said. "If ... if it's urgent, I suppose I could." "It's urgent," Malone said. "I need all the data on telepathic projection I can get. The scientists have given me some of it--maybe Psychical Research has some more. I imagine it's all mixed up with ghosts and ectoplasm, but--" "Telepathic projection," Luba said. "Is that where a person projects a thought into somebody else's mind?" "That's it," Malone said. "Can Sir Lewis get me all the data on that tonight?" "Tonight?" Luba said. "It's pretty late and what with sending them from New York to Nevada--" "Don't bother about that," Malone said. "Just send 'em to the FBI Offices in New York. I'll have the boys there make copies and send the copies on." Instead, he thought, he would teleport to New York himself. But Luba definitely didn't have to know that. "He'd have to send the originals," Luba said. "I'll guarantee their safety," Malone said. "But I need the data right now." Luba hesitated. "Tell him to bill the FBI," Malone said. "Call him collect and he can bill the phone call, too." "All right, Ken," Luba said at last. "I'll try." She went off to make the call, and came back in a few minutes. "O.K.?" Malone said. She smiled at him, very gently. "O.K.," she said. "Now let's go in to dinner, before I get any hungrier and the Great Universal loses some of its paneling." Dinner, Malone told himself, was going to be wonderful. He was alone with Luba, and he was in a fancy, fine, expensive place. He was happy, and Luba was happy, and everything was going to be perfectly frabjous. It was. He had no desire whatever, when dinner and the floor show were over, to leave Luba. Unfortunately, he did have work to do--work that was more important than anything else he could imagine. He made a tentative date for the next day, went to his room, and from there teleported himself to FBI Headquarters, New York. The agent-in-charge looked up at him. "Hey," he said. "I thought you were on vacation, Malone." "How come everybody knows about me being on vacation?" Malone said sourly. The agent-in-charge shrugged. "The only leave not canceled?" he said. "Hell, it was all over the place in five minutes." "O.K., O.K.," Malone said. "Don't remind me. Is there a package for me?" The agent-in-charge produced a large box. "A messenger brought it," he said. "From the Psychical Research Society," he said. "What is it, ghosts?" "Dehydrated," Malone said. "Just add ectoplasm and out they come, shouting _Boo!_ at everybody." "Sounds wonderful," the agent-in-charge said. "Can I come to the party?" "First," Malone said judiciously, "you'd have to be dead. Of course I can arrange that--"