He was no longer in his hotel room at the Statler-Hilton. He was standing in the middle of his office at FBI headquarters, Washington, D.C. It had worked! Malone walked over to the wall switch and turned on the lights in the darkened room. He looked around. He was definitely in his office. He was a teleport. He blinked and wondered briefly if he were dreaming. He pinched himself, said: "Ow," and decided that the pain offered no certain proof. But he didn't feel like part of a dream. He felt real. So did the office. Just as he had promised Dorothea, he went to the phone and dialed the Statler-Hilton. It took a minute for the long-distance circuits to connect him with Manhattan. Then the pretty operator at the hotel was smiling at him from the screen. "Statler-Hilton Hotel," she said. "May we help you?" "Ring Room 814," Malone said. "I'm probably asleep in it." "What?" the operator said. "Never mind," Malone said. "Just ring it." "Yes, sir." The screen went blank. The screen stayed blank for a long time. And then the operator was back. "I'm sorry, sir," she said. "That room doesn't answer." "You're sure?" Malone said. "Certainly." "Try it again," Malone said. The operator did so. She returned with the same answer. Malone frowned and hung up. It didn't sound right. Even a dream was supposed to make more sense than this was making. There was something wrong. He had to get back to the hotel room. There was only one trouble. He didn't have a picture of the room in his notebook. Dorothea had said that it was almost impossible to go to a place one hadn't been to before. Mike Fueyo had been able to pick up any red Cadillac in the city because he'd concentrated solely on the symbol of a red Cadillac. But he never knew which Cadillac he'd end up at. Malone closed his eyes and tried to remember the hotel room. He half-wished he had a photograph of it, but Dorothea had told him that photos wouldn't work. They were too complete; they required no effort of the mind. Only a symbol would do. Of course, the job could be done without a symbol by somebody who'd had plenty of practice. But Malone had made exactly one jump. Could he do it the second time with nothing to work with except his own recollection and visualization of the room? He didn't know, but he was certainly going to try. He had to. Something was wrong; something had happened to Dorothea. He tried to imagine what it could be, and then realized that such thoughts were only delaying him by distracting his mind from its main job. He kept his eyes tightly closed and tried to form the picture in his mind. The couch--there. The dresser--over there. The easy-chair, the rug, the walls, the table--wait a minute: he was losing the couch. There. Now. The table, the desk--all there. In color. And in detail. Slowly they came, and he held them in place, visualizing his hotel room just as he had visualized his office minutes before. He concentrated. Harder. Harder. _Harder._ HAR--