"I tried to be confusing," he said. "But even so, he learned too much. Entirely too much. Didn't you notice, Sparks, that several times when I fumbled for a word, _he_ was the one who supplied it?" "Why, darned if you're not right!" I recalled. "And another thing--when you were first introduced to him, didn't you feel--er--peculiar? You must have. Because you started to say something--" "I felt," I told him, "like a person in a nuthouse. I don't know why, but I felt like something inside my skull was digging for information. I almost spilled the secret of where we got the contraband hidden--" "Not almost, Sparks," corrected Lancelot gravely. "You did! And to the worst possible person. For unless I'm greatly mistaken, that Thaxton person is a _spy_! "More than that, he's the cleverest sort of a spy. Because--he's an _esper_!"[1] [Footnote 1: In the world of Lancelot Biggs, an esper is a man who makes his living telling fortunes. This he is able to do through his ability to make use of extra-sensory perception, the psychological phenomenon discovered by Dr. J. B. Rhine of Duke University, and outlined in his book "New Frontiers of the Mind."--Ed.] The minute he said it I knew he was right. A spy. And an Esper! Earth is lousy with 'em. Most of them are quacks. But a few-- I gasped, "But sweet shades of Io, Lanse! If he's an esper, he's sure to learn all about the cargo. From you or me or Cap or one of the crew--What in Sam Hill are we going to do about it?" "Po?" said Lancelot Biggs. "What? What's that?" "Never mind. I was thinking." "Well, think about something important!" I snapped. "Else we'll all be on the inside looking out when we reach Sun City. Why--why that redheaded little squirt will report us and then we'll all be in the soup!" "I know," said Biggs. "That's why I wouldn't give a true explanation of the audio unit. I didn't want him to come in here sometime while you were off duty and send Venus a message. I figured if we could gain a little time I might think of some way to--Seine?" he said querulously. "The word you want," I said, "is 'insane'. Listen, Biggs, I've got it! We'll get this bracket-legged guy into the blasting room and--" "Sometimes, Sparks," shuddered Maestro Marco Polo Biggs delicately, "I wonder what strange chemistry goes on in that brain of yours. Of course we can't use violence. In the first place, if we did, the Venusian authorities would _know_ something was wrong, confiscate our ship and goods, ignoring our navicert,[2] interne us--" [Footnote 2: A navicert is a navigation and transport permit issued by foreign consular authorities for space travel. Here, the Venusian consulate on Earth certified the _Saturn's_ passage.--Ed.] "If we don't," I reminded him gloomily, "they'll do all them things anyway. And maybe give us two slaps on the wrist for good measure. With a crowbar."