Finally the secretary, with a sigh of reluctance, said she would see if Dr. O’Connor were available. Malone waited in the phone booth, opening the door every few seconds to breathe. The booth was air-conditioned, but remained for some mystical reason an even ten degrees above the boiling point of Malone’s temper. Finally Dr. O’Connor’s lean, pallid face appeared on the screen. He had not changed since Malone had last seen him. He still looked, and acted, like one of Malone’s more disliked law professors. “Ah,” the scientist said in a cold, precise voice. “Mr. Malone. I am sorry for our precautions, but you understand that security must be served.” “Sure,” Malone said. “Being an FBI man, of course you would,” Dr. O’Connor went on, his face changing slightly and his voice warming almost to the boiling point of nitrogen. It was obvious that the phrase was Dr. O’Connor’s idea of a little joke, and Malone smiled politely and nodded. The scientist seemed to feel some friendliness toward Malone, though it was hard to tell for sure. But Malone had brought him some fine specimens to work with—telepaths and teleports, though human, being no more than specimens to such a very precise scientific mind—and he seemed grateful for Malone’s diligence and effort in finding such fascinating objects of study. That Malone certainly hadn’t started out to find them made, it appeared, very little difference. “Well, then,” O’Connor said, returning to his normal, serious tone. “What can I do for you, Mr. Malone?” “If you have the time, Doctor,” Malone said respectfully, “I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.” He had the absurd feeling that O’Connor was going to tell him to stop by after class, but the scientist only nodded. “Your call is timed very well,” he said. “As it happens, Mr. Malone, I do have a few seconds to spare just now.” “Fine,” Malone said. “I should be glad to talk with you,” O’Connor said, without looking any more glad than ever. “I’ll be right there,” Malone said. O’Connor nodded again, and blanked out. Malone switched off and took a deep, superheated breath of phone booth air. For a second he considered starting his trip from outside the phone booth, but that was dangerous—if not to Malone, then to innocent spectators. Psionics was by no means a household word, and the sight of Malone leaving for Nevada might send several citizens straight to the wagon. Which was not a place, he thought judiciously, for anybody to be on such a hot day. He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. In that time he reconstructed from memory a detailed, three-dimensional, full-color image of Dr. O’Connor’s office in his mind. It was perfect in detail; he checked it over mentally and then, by a special effort of will, he gave himself the psychic push that made the transition possible.