Dr. O Connor's expression changed from patient wisdom to irritation. "I wish we could, Mr. Malone. I wish we could. We certainly need one here to help us with our work--and I'm sure that _your_ work is important, too. But I'm afraid we have no ideas at all about finding another telepath. Finding little Charlie was purely fortuitous--purely, Mr. Malone, fortuitous." "Ah," Malone said. "Sure. Of course." He thought rapidly and discovered that he couldn't come up with one more question. As a matter of fact, he'd asked a couple of questions already, and he could barely remember the answers. "Well," he said, "I guess that's about it, then, doctor. If you come across anything else, be sure and let me know." He leaned across the desk, extending a hand. "And thanks for your time," he added. Dr. O'Connor stood up and shook his hand. "No trouble, I assure you," he said. "And I'll certainly give you all the information I can." Malone turned and walked out. Surprisingly, he discovered that his feet and legs still worked. He had thought they'd turned to stone in the office long before. * * * * * It was on the plane back to Washington that Malone got his first inkling of an idea. The only telepath that the Westinghouse boys had been able to turn up was Charles O'Neill, the youthful imbecile. All right, then. Suppose there were another one like him. Imbeciles weren't very difficult to locate. Most of them would be in institutions, and the others would certainly be on record. It might be possible to find someone, anyway, who could be handled and used as a tool to find a telepathic spy. And--happy thought!--maybe one of them would turn out to be a high-grade imbecile, or even a moron. [Illustration] Even if they only turned up another imbecile, he thought wearily, at least Dr. O'Connor would have something to work with. He reported back to Burris when he arrived in Washington, told him about the interview with Dr. O'Connor, and explained what had come to seem a rather feeble brainstorm. "It doesn't seem too productive," Burris said, with a shade of disappointment in his voice, "but we'll try it." At that, it was a better verdict than Malone had hoped for. He had nothing to do but wait, while orders went out to field agents all over the United States, and quietly, but efficiently, the FBI went to work. Agents probed and pried and poked their noses into the files and data sheets of every mental institution in the fifty states--as far, at any rate, as they were able. It was not an easy job. The inalienable right of a physician to refuse to disclose confidences respecting a patient applied even to idiots, imbeciles, and morons. Not even the FBI could open the private files of a licensed and registered psychiatrist. But the field agents did the best they could and, considering the circumstances, their best was pretty good.