"It's a beautiful rationalization," one of the psychiatrists said with more than a trace of admiration in his voice. "Complete and thoroughly consistent. She's just traded identities--and everything else she does--_everything_ else--stems logically out of her delusional premise. Beautiful." She might have been crazy, Malone realized. But she was a long way from stupid. The project was in full swing. The only trouble was that they were no nearer finding the telepath than they had been three weeks before. With five completely blank human beings to work with, and the sixth Queen Elizabeth (Malone heard privately that the last telepath, the girl from Honolulu, was no better than the first five; she had apparently regressed into what one of the psychiatrists called a "non-identity childhood syndrome." Malone didn't know what it meant, but it sounded terrible.) Malone could see why progress was their most difficult commodity. Dr. Harry Gamble, the head of Project Isle, was losing poundage by the hour with worry. And, Malone reflected, he could ill afford it. Burris, Malone and Boyd had set themselves up in a temporary office within the Westinghouse area. The director had left his assistant in charge in Washington. Nothing, he said over and over again, was as important as the spy in Project Isle. Apparently Boyd had come to believe that, too. At any rate, though he was still truculent, there were no more outbursts of rebellion. * * * * * But, on the fourth day: "What do we do now?" Burris asked. "Shoot ourselves," Boyd said promptly. "Now, look here--" Malone began, but he was overruled. "Boyd," Burris said levelly, "if I hear any more of that sort of pessimism, you're going to be an exception to the beard rule. One more crack out of you, and you can go out and buy yourself a razor." Boyd put his hand over his chin protectively, and said nothing at all. "Wait a minute," Malone said. "Aren't there any _sane_ telepaths in the world?" "We can't find any," Burris said. "We--" There was a knock at the office door. "Who's there?" Burris called. "Dr. Gamble," said the man's surprisingly baritone voice. Burris called: "Come in, doctor," and the door opened. Dr. Gamble's lean face looked almost haggard. "Mr. Burris," he said, extending his arms a trifle, "can't anything be done?" Malone had seen Gamble speaking before, and had wondered if it would be possible for the man to talk with his hands tied behind his back. Apparently it wouldn't be. "We feel that we are approaching a critical stage in Project Isle," the scientist said, enclosing one fist within the other hand. "If anything more gets out to the Soviets, we might as well publish our findings"--a wide, outflung gesture of both arms--"in the newspapers."