Malone thought fast. He had to have something, and he didn’t have much time. “Why—uh—” he said, and then it came to him. “Yes, as a matter of fact you can,” he said. “Glad to be of service,” Carter said. “I’m sure we can do anything you request.” “Have you got any more data on telepathic projection?” Malone said. Sir Lewis Carter frowned. “Telepathic projection?” he said. “The stuff—the phenomenon Cartier Taylor mentioned,” Malone said, “in _Minds and Morons_. I think it was page eighty-four.” “Oh,” Carter said. “Oh, yes. Of course. Well, Mr. Malone, we’ll see what we can do for you.” Malone sighed. “Thanks,” he said mournfully. “I guess—I guess that’s all, then.” He smiled at Lou, and turned the smile into a terrifying scowl when his eye caught Carter’s. “Oh,” Malone said. “So long. So long, everybody.” “Ken—” This was not, he told himself sadly, either the time or the place. “Goodbye, Sir Lewis,” he said. “Goodbye, Lou.” The elevator opened its doors and received him. * * * * * Exactly fifty-nine minutes after Cesare Manelli had hung up on him, Malone showed up in the stately and sumptuous suite that belonged, for a stiff fee every month, to the firm of Rodger, Willcoe, O’Vurr and Aoud. The girl at the desk was his old Spearmint friend. “Mr. Manelli,” Malone said. “I’ve got an appointment. My name is Malone and his is Manelli. He works here.” That, he told himself, was an understatement; but at least he had a chance of getting his point across. “Oh,” the girl said. Her gum popped. “Certainly. Right away, Mr. Maloney.” Malone opened his mouth, then shut it again. It just wasn’t worth the trouble, he thought. The girl did things with a switchboard, then turned to him again. “Mr. Manelli’s office is right down there in back,” she said, pointing vaguely. “Think you can find it, Mr. Maloney?” “I’ll try,” Malone promised. He went down the long corridor and stopped at an unmarked door. It was at least an even chance, he told himself, and opened the door. The room inside appeared to be mostly desk. The gigantic slab of wood sat against the far wall of the room, in the right-hand corner and spreading over toward the center. It appeared, in the soft half-light of the room, to be waiting for somebody to walk into its lair. Malone was sure, at first sight, that this desk ate people; it was just the type: big and dark and glowering and massive. There wasn’t anybody seated behind it, which reinforced his belief. The desk had eaten its master. Now it was out of control and they would have to have it shot. Malone took a deep breath and tried not to veer. Then he heard a voice. “Sit down, Mr. Malone,” the voice said. “How about you having a drink while we talk? If this is going to be so friendly.”