“Oh, yes, Sir Thomas,” Her Majesty said. “What you’re thinking is certainly possible. It may even be true.” “What _is_ he thinking?” Malone said. “He thinks,” Her Majesty said, “that I may not have the talent for this particular effect—and perhaps I don’t. But, talent or not, I know what’s possible and what isn’t. And the way Mr. Taylor describes it is simply silly, that’s all. And unladylike. Imagine any self-respecting lady ‘squirting’ her thoughts about in space!” “Well,” Malone said carefully, “aside from its being unladylike—” “Sir Kenneth,” Her Majesty said, “you are not telepathic. Neither is Sir Thomas.” “I’m nothing,” Boyd said. “I don’t even exist.” “And it is very difficult to explain to the non-telepath just what Mr. Taylor is implying,” Her Majesty went on imperturbably. “Before you could inject any thoughts into anyone else’s mind, you’d have to be able to see into that mind. Is that correct?” “I guess so,” Malone said. “And in order to do that, you’d have to be telepathic,” Her Majesty said. “Am I correct?” “Correct,” Malone said. “Well, then,” Her Majesty said with satisfaction, and beamed at him. A second passed. “Well, then, what?” Malone said in confusion. “Telepathy,” Her Majesty said patiently, “is an extremely complex affair. It involves a sort of meshing with the mind of this other person. It has nothing, absolutely nothing, in common with this simple ‘squirting’ of thoughts across space, as if they were orange pips you were trying to put into a wastebasket. No, Sir Kenneth, I cannot believe in what Mr. Taylor says.” “But it’s still possible,” Malone said. “Oh,” Her Majesty said, “it’s certainly possible. But I should think that if any telepaths were around, and if they were changing people’s minds by ‘squirting’ at them, I would know it.” Malone frowned. “Maybe you would at that,” he said. “I guess you would.” “Not to mention,” Boyd put in, “that if you were going to control everything we’ve come across like that you’d need an awful lot of telepathic operators.” “That’s true,” Malone admitted. “And the objections seem to make some sense. But what else is there to go on?” “I don’t know,” Boyd said. “I haven’t the faintest idea. And I’m rapidly approaching the stage where I don’t care.” “Well,” Malone said, heaving a sigh, “let’s keep looking.” He bent down and picked up another sheaf of copies from the Psychical Research Society. “After all,” he said, without much hope, “you never know.” * * * * * Malone looked around the office of Andrew J. Burris as if he’d never seen it before. He felt tired, and worn out, and depressed; it had been a long night, and here it was morning and the head of the FBI was giving him instructions. It was, Malone told himself, a hell of a life. “Now, Malone,” Burris said, “this is a very ticklish situation. You’ve got to handle it with great care.” “I can see that,” Malone said apprehensively. “It certainly looks ticklish. And unusual.”