_All right_, she thought recklessly, _the_ hell _with it_! Let Johnny have all the fits he wanted to. This man was really interested: he _meant_ it. _And_ she liked him. And liked talking to him. “Psychokinesis is what it actually stands for,” she said. “That’s control of physical objects--Well, actually, any psi activity that involves application of energy, rather than just perception.” Damn if she was going to keep floundering, either. She wasn’t setting up straw houses now. “And Potter’s approach basically is that perception involves an energy transfer, too. Light rays have to strike the eye, or sound waves hit your ear, before you see or hear. Even internally, the message goes to the brain through a series of impulses that he claims work like a radio condenser. I mean, he says the nerves don’t actually touch, but energy stores up in one end until it sort of sparks to the end of the next one. So--wait a minute, let me find it here.” She reached for the book. He had been studying the back jacket. “This man, Potter, is a neurologist,” he said thoughtfully. “Got interested in this stuff from working on neural exchange process. You know, that’s goddam interesting. Say, Johnny, this is right up your alley, you know? Thanks.” He took the full glass. “I never thought of it that way before, but if anyone ever _does_ crack this nut, I’ll bet it’s a cybe man who does it!” “Wouldn’t surprise me,” Johnny said drily. “Some of the squirrel tracks they’re following now are no nuttier.” The silence did not really last long. Christensen said mildly, “Which set of tracks did you have in mind, John? Cybernetics or parapsychology?” “Take your pick. I was thinking of some of the commercialized, excuse the expression, _robots_. But if you want to drag para- or any other kind of psychology into it, that’s okay with me.” _The X-smile again_, Lisa noted. _I ought to do something._ This could get out of hand with no trouble at all. Everything she could think of seemed too absurd. It was quite evident that neither of them wanted coffee. Or music, or cards, or a look at the Moon. * * * * * _What the hell am I doing here?_ He knew the answer to that one, too well: there were dozens--or hundreds?--of men who could handle the job he wanted Wendt for. Handle it better than John could, from the looks of things. But none of them were named _Johnny Wendt: Space Hero_. And he, Peter Christensen, didn’t owe anything to them, either. _Oh, crap. You don’t need a new conscience, chum. You just need headlines. Go fetch!_ Then he saw that the glass in the other man’s hand was empty again. _Already?_ Things were worse than he’d thought.... “Hey, Johnny, wait up!” He drained the glass, and decided he’d been moralizing too damn much. If he didn’t have to fly back tonight, he wouldn’t mind tying one on himself. He followed his host to the kitchen.