THE BRAIN SINNER

                           By ALAN E. NOURSE

                 _An invisible network of human minds
               lay across the country, delicately tuned,
               waiting breathlessly for the first spark
                 of contact from the unknown ... from
                 the unpredictable telepathic Alien._

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                      Planet Stories Spring 1955.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


The ship skimmed down like a shadow from the outer atmosphere and
settled gently and silently in the tangled underbrush of the hill that
overlooked the bend in the broad river. There was a hiss of scorched
leaves, and the piping of a small, trapped animal. Then there was
silence.

Higher up, the sunlight was bright over the horizon; here the shadows
had lengthened and it was quite dark. Far across the hills a dog
howled mournfully; night birds made small rustling sounds through the
scrub and underbrush. The alien waited, tensely, listening, waiting
with his mind open for any flicker of surprise or wonder, waiting for
a whisper of fear or recognition to slip into his mind from the dark
hills around the ship. He waited and waited.

Then he gave a satisfied grunt. Foolish of him to worry. All possible
care had been taken to avoid any kind of alarm. He had landed unseen
from Io.

The alien stretched back against the couch, allowing his long, tight
muscles to relax, as he sent inquiring feelers of thought out from the
ship, probing gently and tentatively, for signs of the psi-presence.
The landing, after all, had been assumed. Already the natives had
convinced themselves that ships such as his were a delusion. Such
simple creatures, to disregard the evidence of their own senses! There
should be no problem here when the invasion began, with the preliminary
studies already completed, the disguising techniques almost perfected.
A primitive world, indeed, but a world with psi-presence already
developing--a possible flaw in the forthcoming silent conquest.

For psi-presence could detect other psi-presence, always, anywhere,
despite any disguise. The alien knew that. It was the one universal
denominator in all the centuries of conquest and enslavement in his
people's history. Before they could come, they must know the strength
of the psi-presence on this world.

The alien moved, finally, beginning his preparations. In the center
of the cabin an image flickered, swarming flecks of light and shadow
that filled out a three-dimensional form, complete and detailed. The
alien sat back and studied it through hooded yellow eyes--carefully,
oh so carefully, for there must be no mistake, not here, not now. The
scouts had come and gone, bringing back the data and specimens of
the man-things necessary for a satisfactory disguise. Now the alien
stared at the image, regarding the bone structure and muscle contour
critically. Then, slowly, he began work with the plastiflesh, modelling
the sharp angles of his members into neat curves, skillfully laying
folds of skin, molding muscle bulges and jointed fingers, always
studying the strange, clumsy image that flickered before him.

It was the image of a man. That was what they called themselves. There
were many of them, and somewhere among them there was psi-presence,
feeble and underdeveloped, but there somewhere. He eyed the image
again, and pressed a stud on the control panel, and another image
met his eyes, an electronic reflection of himself. He studied it, and
carefully superimposed the two, adding contour here and there, yellow
eyes seeking out imperfections as he worked.

There must be no mistake. Failure would mean disgrace and death,
horrible, writhing death by dissociation and burning, neuron by
neuron. He knew. He had officiated at executions before; delightful
experiences, but not to be trifled with. He stared at the image again
and then at himself.

       *       *       *       *       *

The skin tone was wrong. The yellow came through too clearly in
places, and in this strange culture that color was reported to carry
unpleasant connotations. He worked pale, sickly-pink stuff into his
soft, wrinkle-free skin, then molded out the cheeks and forehead. Hair
would be a problem, of course, but then there would be many small
imperfections. He smiled grimly to himself. There were other ways of
masking imperfections.

At last he was satisfied. There was no way to bring the normal reddish
color into the pale green lips; there was no way to satisfactorily
prepare the myriad wrinkles and creases that crossed the skin of the
man-things, but with a little skillful application of projection
techniques it did not matter.

The alien struggled into the tight, restricting clothes that lay in a
bundle, carefully folded and pressed, at his feet. The hard, board-like
shoes cut at his ankles, and the hairy stuff of the red-and-white
checked shirt made him writhe in discomfort, but once outside the
ship he was glad for the warmth. He stepped out onto the ground, and
listened again carefully. Then he made certain arrangements with wires,
and threw a switch on a small black case near the air lock, and began
marching down the hill away from the ship.

He would no longer need the ship. Not now.

The underbrush grew thicker, and he fought his way through the scrub
until he reached a roadway. It was not paved. A flicker of sour
amusement swept through the alien's mind. They had been afraid that
these simple creatures might try to oppose them! Yet the scouts had
said that far to the East were great stone and steel cities--the
places-of-madness, the scout had said. Perhaps. But here there was no
stone and steel, only dust, and the ruts of wagon wheels, and a howling
dog somewhere over the hill.

The alien trudged on for almost an hour, trying to acclimate his legs
to the fierce tug of gravity that pulled at him. And then he stopped
short and listened.

He heard them, then, in the depths of his mind, somewhere on the other
side of the hill. His eyes narrowed. No psi-presence there, but two of
the man-things, beyond doubt. Other whispers, too dull, stupid, vagrant
whispers flickering through his mind. Lower life forms, no doubt.
Possibly a farm with work animals. The scouts had said there were such.
He turned off the road and almost cried out when the sharp barbs of a
fence cut through his tender skin.

A trickle of green dripped down his arm, until he rubbed a poultice
across it, and it became smooth and sickly-pink again. With a vicious
jerk he pulled the fence out, post and all, and left it on the ground,
moving through the woods toward the sounds he had heard.

Soon the woods ended and he saw the dwelling across a broad clearing.
Black dirt lay open in the moonlight. He started across. There was
light inside the dwelling, and the dull, babbling flow of uncontrolled
man-thought struck his mind like a vapor. There were other buildings,
too, dark buildings, and one tall one that had a spoked wheel on top,
and creaked and rustled in the darkness.

He had almost reached the dwelling when a small, four-legged creature
jumped up in the darkness, crying out at him in a horrible discordant
barrage. The creature came running swiftly, and the alien's mind caught
the sharp whine of fear and hate emanating from the thing. It stopped
before him, baring its fangs and snarling.

The alien lashed his foot out savagely; it crunched into flesh and
bone, and the creature lay flopping helplessly, spurting dark wet
stuff, its cry cut off in mid-yelp. The alien stepped onto the porch
as the door opened suddenly, framing a tall, thin man-thing in a box
of yellow light. "Brownie?" he called. "Come here, Brownie! What's the
matter--" His words trailed off when he saw the alien. "Who are you?"

"A traveller," said the alien, his voice grating harshly in the
darkness. "I need lodging and food--"

The farmer's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he peered from the doorway.
"Come closer, let me get a look at you," he said.

The alien stepped closer, concentrating all his psi-faculties on the
farmer's mind, blurring his perception of the minute imperfections of
his disguise. It required all his power; he had none left to probe the
farmer's mind, and he waited, trembling. That could come later.

The farmer blinked, and nodded, finally. "All right," he said. "We've
got some food on the stove. Come on in."


                                  II

Senatorial Councilman Benjamin Towne slammed his cane down on the floor
with a snarl, and eased himself back down in his seat, staring angrily
around the small Federal Security Commission ante-room. The American
Council attaché standing near the door retrieved the cane, handing it
to the Councilman with a polite murmur. Instantly he regretted his
action when Towne began slapping the cane against his palm, short
staccato slaps that rang out ominously in the small room.

The Councilman was not in the habit of waiting. He did not like it
in the least, and made no effort to conceal his feelings. His little
green cat eyes roved around the room in sharp disapproval, resting
momentarily on the neat autodesk, on the cool grey walls, on the
vaguely disturbing water-color on the wall--one of those sickening
Psi-High experimentals that the snob critics all claimed to be so
wonderful. The Councilman growled and blinked at the morning sunlight
streaming through the muted glass panels of the northeast wall. Far
below, the second morning rush hour traffic buzzed through the city
with frantic nervousness.

The Councilman tapped his cane on the floor, glancing up at his
attaché. "That Sanders girl," he snapped. "Give me her file again."

The Council attaché opened a large briefcase, and produced a thick
bundle of papers in a manilla folder. Towne took them and glanced
through the papers, lighting one of his long, green-tipped cigarettes
from a ruby-studded lighter. "How about Dr. Abrams? Was he questioned?"

The attaché nodded in embarrassment. "Nothing doing. He ran us in
circles."

Towne's scowl deepened. "Did you give him the Treatment?"

"He just wasn't having any, sir. Said he'd answer to a Joint Council
hearing, and nothing less."

"Stubborn old goat. He knows I've got nothing that will stand up in a
Council hearing." Towne went back to the papers again, still tapping
the floor with the cane. "_Damn_ that Roberts!"

The attaché glanced down at Benjamin Towne with some curiosity.
It was easy to see how the man drew such powerful support from
his constituents. There was something overwhelming about his
appearance--the heavy jaw and grim mouth line, the shock of sandy hair
that fell over his forehead, the burning green eyes, the stout, well
muscled body. The attaché's eyes drifted down to the withered left leg
and the grotesque twisted foot, and he looked away in embarrassment.
What was so awe-inspiring about a crippled man who accumulated great
power? Towne certainly had done that. Some said that Ben Towne was the
most powerful man in North America. Some also said that he was the
greatest man, but that was something quite different indeed. And some
said that he was the most dangerous man alive. The attaché shivered.
That was none of his business. If he went probing _that_ line too far
they'd be calling him Psi-High, and he liked his job too much to risk
that.

The inner door opened and a tall man with prematurely gray hair strode
in, followed by a girl in her early twenties. "Sorry to keep you,
Councilman," the man said. "No, no, don't get up. We can talk right
here."

Towne had made no effort to rise. He glared at the man, and then his
eyes drifted to the girl and widened angrily. "I said a _private_
conference, Roberts. I don't want one of these damned brain-picking
snakes in the same room with me."

The man nodded cooly to the girl. "Sit down, Jean. Councilman, this is
Jean Sanders. If you're here about the Alien investigation, I want her
to sit in."

Ben Towne slowly set the papers down on the floor. "Record this,
Roger," he said to the attaché. His eyes turned to Roberts. "I
understand he slipped out of your hands again yesterday," he said with
vicious smoothness. "A pity."

Roberts reddened. "That's right. He slipped out clean."

"No pictures, no identifications, no nothing, eh?"

"I'm afraid not."

Towne's voice was deadly. "Mr. Roberts, an unidentified Alien creature
has been at large in this country for three solid weeks, and your
Federal Security teams haven't even gotten near him. I want to know
why."

"I'd suggest that if you read our reports--"

"Damn you, man, I didn't come here for insolence!" Towne slammed the
cane down with a clatter. "You're answerable to the Joint Senatorial
Council of the North American States for every wretched thing you do,
and I'm ready to bring charges of criminal negligence against you in
this Alien investigation--"

"_Criminal negligence!_" Roberts jumped up, his eyes blazing. "My god,
Councilman! We've thrown everything we have into this search. This
creature has played us for fools every step of the way! We didn't even
get a look at his ship. It blew up right in our faces! Do you realize
what we're fighting here?"

"I realize quite well," said Towne, frostily. "You're fighting an
Alien who has slipped into our population, somehow, and just vanished.
There's no way to tell what he wants or what he's doing. The potential
danger of his presence is staggering. And you've fumbled and groaned
for three weeks without even turning up a hot trail. You haven't even a
coherent description of him--"

"We're fighting a telepath," Roberts said softly. "An Alien with
telepathic powers like nothing we've ever dreamed of. That's what we're
fighting. And we're losing, too."

The girl across the room stirred uneasily. Ben Towne's green eyes shot
over to her viciously. "And you're using freaks like her to help him
hide, I suppose."

"Jean Sanders is not a freak." Roberts' voice grated in the still air
of the room. "She's Psi-High, and she's the most valuable asset we've
got in this search at the present moment. It's a real pity there aren't
more Psi-Highs that have had her training."

"And you sit there and tell me you'd dare use Psi-Highs in an
investigation as critical as this?"

Roberts sighed in disgust. "Councilman, you don't have any idea what
you're saying."

"I beg to differ," Towne's eyes flashed. "I happen to be aware that
there are a group of individuals wandering around loose who will have
this country in chains in a hundred years if they're allowed to develop
as they please. Psi-Highs are a vicious menace, nothing more nor less.
We can't help it that we have them. The fools in the government were
blind two hundred years ago when they first started appearing, and
psi-factors are gene-controlled. But they can't use their extra-sensory
powers without training."

He picked up the cane and leaned forward at Roberts. "Thanks to Reuben
Abram's meddling over at the Hoffman Center, some of them are already
developing their psi-faculties, learning to use a treacherous power
that has no place in civilized society. Well, _I don't want them
working in Security_! Is that clear enough?"

Roberts sighed tiredly and leaned back in his chair. "You're confused
a little," he said. "This is not the Rotary Club. It's not a Federal
Isolationist rally, and it's not the Senate floor, either. It's just me
you're talking to. And to my knowledge, you haven't succeeded as yet
in removing all Psi-High rights. You've gotten laws through Congress
to make them take tests and submit to registration; you've passed laws
to prevent them from marrying; you've blocked their education and
hamstrung their training and developement, but you _haven't_, as yet,
been able to strip them of their citizenship--"

"Not as yet," said Ben Towne.

"And you can't, as yet, dictate the activities of the Federal Security
Commission."

"Not as yet."

Roberts' eyes blazed. "All right. Now you can listen to me for a
minute, Councilman, recording or no recording. We've got an enemy in
our midst--an Alien we've never even seen. We can thank a psi-positive
citizen out in Des Moines for spotting him in the first place. He had
the sense and the loyalty to report it to us. Normal psi-negative
individuals can't see him, can't identify him, can't even get near him.
We haven't tried Psi-High agents against him yet but we're going to
have to, whether you like it or not. Psi-negatives are strapped. The
Alien can run circles around them. Our only hope of catching him is
to use psi-positive agents, the best-trained we can get our hands on.
Like Jean, here. And if you want to stop me you'll have to reorganize
Federal Security to do it."

Towne lurched to his feet, his face white. "I may do that, Roberts." He
reached for his cane. "I may just do that."

"You'll have to throw the Liberal Council out of office first. They're
supporting me, and outvoting your American Council two to one."

Towne gave him a shrewd look. "Better start watching the telecasts, and
newstapes," he said bluntly. "Already there are rumors going around
about a mysterious Alien fugitive. Oh, I know it's top secret, but
you know how news leaks." He gave a nasty smile. "People get nervous
about rumors like that, especially when the Administration denies
them so sharply. You'd better catch him pretty quick." He nodded to
his attaché, and limped to the door. Then he glanced back over his
shoulder. "Be sure to watch the telecasts," he said, and slammed the
door behind him.

Jean Sanders stood up, white-faced and trembling. "What a vicious man,"
she murmured. "What did he mean, Bob?"

Robert Roberts shook his head, and fished a cigar from a desk drawer.
"I'm not sure that I know," he said slowly.


                                  III

Paul Faircloth finished reading the teletape briefing just as the
little jet plane slipped down toward the hangar slot in South Chicago.
He slapped the spools into the erasure can and flipped the control
switch to activate the distortion field inside the can. He stretched
his legs, then, wondering vaguely whether he was going to come out of
this whole mess alive.

Jean's parting hug was still warm in his memory, and he remembered the
worry in her big grey eyes as she had kissed him and said, "Be careful,
darling. I wish I could go, too. I couldn't bear to have anything
happen--" It was the first time she had ever actually spoken that word
to him, and he was glad she had. Almost defiantly glad. She had said it
aloud, and she had said so much, much more without words. Only vague
shadows in Faircloth's untrained mind, but he knew the meaning of those
shadows.

A man was waiting down below on the platform for him. The hangar vault
was dark and deserted. He took the agent's card and scanned it briefly.
"Marino? I'm Paul Faircloth. Better give me a late briefing."

Marino nodded. He was small and wiry, with catlike movements and
exceedingly bright eyes under his jet black eyebrows. "We'd be wise to
get on over while we talk," he said.

Faircloth nodded and stepped into the little tube-car that was waiting
at the end of the platform. It was a tight fit for two men, and Paul
ducked by reflex as it gave a lurch and dipped down the chute into a
narrow tunnel, hanging free and speeding ahead on its electronic guide
beam. "Is the Condor Building where he was spotted?"

Marino nodded. "In Center City, Chicago. First thirty-six floors are
commercial, and the twenty above are residential. He's pinned pretty
definitely on the forty-second, in a large residential suite. No idea
why he chose it or how long he's been there--" He turned apologetic
eyes to Faircloth. "I'm Psi-High--I guess you know. We've got him
located and triangulated, and we can keep him pretty well pinned if
he doesn't try to give us a shower. We're pretty sure he knows we're
there."

"Shower?"

Marino nodded, grimly tapping his forehead. "A barrage, the works. This
Alien's got a powerful psi. And I mean powerful. He gave it to one of
our Psi-High men yesterday. It was savage. Nearly ripped him apart."

Faircloth shivered. "But you can keep track of him."

"Yes." Marino lit a cigarette with nervous fingers. "Roberts put
Psi-Highs out to spot him, but he doesn't want any Psi-Highs in on the
kill." His voice was flat with disappointment. "Political pressure, I
guess. People couldn't bear to give a Psi-High credit for anything--"
He glanced at Faircloth and reddened. "Sorry. No offense. It just
slipped out." He bit his lip. "Anyway, that's what you're here for.
Half a dozen other psi-negatives will help you. I hope God'll be
helping you too."

Faircloth grinned tightly. "Got you nervous?"

"It's got me plenty nervous."

Faircloth nodded again, rubbing a hand across his eyes. "All right. I
want your best men, every one of them, to go in with me. I don't care
whether they're Psi-High or not. Neither does Roberts; he's with you
folks all the way. But we've got to get this creature and get him cold.
He's slick. Is the building sewed up?"

"Tight as a vacutainer."

"Good. Keep it under cover, and try to keep the Psi-Highs from
broadcasting any more than necessary."

Marino gave him a queer look. "They'll do their best, of course."

"Right." Faircloth ran a hand through his brown hair and loosened his
tie a trifle. "As soon as the building is cleared from rush hour, I
want the power shut off all over the building. Elevators, lights,
everything. We'll be on the 41st floor, and a squad will be on the
43rd. We'll close in together."

Marino shook his head. "I hope it works. They had him just as tight in
Des Moines last week, and he slid right through." The man's eyes were
worried. "We just don't know what we're fighting. That's the whole
trouble. Even the Psi-Highs are up a tree."

       *       *       *       *       *

The car gave a lurch and slid to a stop. They stepped out into a shiny
tunnel filled with people emptying out of the huge building above. The
two men waited to board an express surface elevator, and stepped off on
the main concourse of the Condor Building. The last sunset rays made
a dazzling golden display on the banks of heliomirrors, and Faircloth
blinked, shielding his eyes a moment after the softer light below.
Then he glanced at his watch. "Let's coffee up," he said. "We've got a
few minutes."

They slid into an eating booth on the concourse and dropped in coins
for coffee. It was so clumsy, Faircloth thought. Three and a half weeks
since the ship had been spotted down along the Mississippi, and they
were still just learning how clumsy they were. They had even thought
that the visitor, whoever he was, had been killed in landing until the
first Security Team had gotten to the ship. They'd gotten to within
just ten feet of it when it had exploded. And even then they hadn't
realized what they'd found, until the report came from Des Moines, and
they started following up leads. They had followed the alien, true,
from the first farmhouse where he had stopped the night he landed, west
through the farm country to Des Moines, then northeast to the great
Chicago metropolis. But when it came to contacting the creature or
capturing him--Faircloth shook his head. Clumsy just wasn't the right
word.

He glanced at Marino, and then readied across the booth and buzzed for
a newstape. He glanced over the Washington news hurriedly. Another
upheaval in the Liberal Council. The Northern Democrats were trying to
drum up Civil Rights Party and One World Party support for their new
South American Developement program, and they weren't getting to first
base. And there was another vicious attack by Ben Towne on the Hoffman
Center's training program for Psi-Highs. Towne had even named Reuben
Abrams as a leader there, and worked in some high-grade anti-Semitic
innuendo into the association. Paul went tense, searching for Jean's
name. It was not mentioned. He took a deep breath. If that filthy dog
ever dragged her name into public. He finished his coffee, and gave the
repeat button a vicious jab.

Then his eye caught a small item with a Des Moines dateline, well
hidden down at the bottom of the backside of the tape. He read it,
frowning:

                   WOMAN CHARGES PSI-HIGH CONSPIRACY

    Des Moines, Ia., 27 June, 2157. A woman whose name was withheld
    today placed charges against Miss Martha Bishop, 23, of Oak Park
    Section, Chicago, whose name is listed in the Federal psi-positive
    registry. The charge was made at local Federal Security offices,
    and accused Miss Bishop of mental interference. The victim, who
    allegedly had information concerning the rumors of an Alien visitor
    which have been persistently appearing lately, claimed that Miss
    Bishop had attempted to prevent her from reporting her information.
    After failing in this attempt, Miss Bishop was charged with using
    her psi-powers to erase the information from the woman's mind. Miss
    Bishop could not be reached for comment.

    Mr. J. B. Dunlap, spokesman for the Liberal Senatorial Council in
    Washington, has repeatedly denied that the rumor of alien visitors
    has any basis in fact. Nevertheless, the charges against Miss
    Bishop are being investigated fully--

Faircloth crumpled the tape with a snarl and returned to his coffee.
Finally he nodded to Marino. "Drink up," he said, "and get in touch
with your men. It's time to go."

Ted Marino left for the elevators to corral his men, arranging to meet
Faircloth in the concourse five minutes later. Paul found a visiphone
relay booth, and sank his long, lean body down in a relaxer facing the
screen. The last of the rush-hour people were still drifting by in the
corridor; Paul watched them anxiously. Then he gave a nervous laugh,
forcing himself to relax for a moment. If only Jean were here! He
battled an impulse to call her. Finally he dialed the priority code for
the Federal Security Commission offices in Washington.

The relays clicked, and the code carried him through the front-line
secretaries without any trouble. He gave a sigh of relief. He was in
no mood to argue with secretaries. A moment later he was blinking at
Roberts' tri-di image on the screen.

Roberts' face looked haggard. He nodded to Faircloth. "You got there,
then. Good. How does it look, Paul?"

"Everything's just real nice," Faircloth growled. "They think they've
got him pinned. The building here has a central power source, and we
can bottleneck the whole place if we time it right."

"Don't miss, Paul." Roberts' voice was tense. "Whatever you do, don't
miss."

"What's the matter?"

"Ben Towne has worked his way into this."

"Oh, god!"

"Well, I can't help it, there was nothing I could do. He has the whole
American Council behind him, and the Liberals can't hold out long on
negative results. Towne has the whole picture now, and if we don't
wrap it up fast, things here in the Capitol are going to blow sky high."

Faircloth scowled. "Did you see the newstapes tonight?"

"You mean the Bishop girl in Des Moines?" Roberts nodded unhappily.
"Got the report from Des Moines on it this afternoon. Trumped up from
beginning to end. I tell you, Towne is not playing around. I don't
know how he plans to work things, but I'm afraid that story was just
a starter. He'll do everything he can to tie the Alien up with the
Psi-Highs in the public eye--and you know Ben Towne when he gets
rolling. He'll play this rumor business up to the hilt. And the way
things are in the Senate now, that could mean real trouble."

"Who's controlling Security news releases?"

Roberts gave a short laugh. "Take a guess. Just one guess. Don't miss
tonight, my friend."

       *       *       *       *       *

Faircloth nodded and signalled off. He sat swearing quietly to himself
for a few moments. Then Marino came by, and he swung out into the hall
again, glancing at his watch. "Ready?"

Marino nodded. "Got the squads placed on the 41st and 43rd. Power goes
off when we step off the elevator on the 41st. Okay?"

Faircloth grunted, and spread out a floor plan of the 42nd floor. "Is
the building all clear?"

"All the commercial levels, yes. And autolocks go on all the doors but
the one we want when the power goes off."

"Good. At least we shouldn't have residents underfoot. You've got
Psi-Highs posted outside the building?"

"Yes, in 'copters. Circling the building fairly close, out of sight
range of the 42nd."

"All right. We'll move in on him as soon as the power goes off. I want
cameras going everywhere--in the corridors, in the stairwells, even
in the 'copters outside. If there's a slip-up, I want to see where he
goes, and especially I want a picture of him. A _good_ picture of him.
Maybe he can fuzz up human eyesight, but he'll have a hell of a time
fuzzing up a camera. Let's go."

They stepped on the elevator, felt it rush up to the 41st floor. They
stepped off. As the door closed behind them, the whirring motors died,
and the lights went out. Faircloth led the way swiftly to the closed
stairwell where they met four other men, one with a motion camera.
"Cover everything," Paul said sharply. "If you see him, stop him with a
shocker, not with pellets. We want him alive." He opened the stairwell
and started up with the men behind him. Moments later they met part of
the group from the 43rd; they started swiftly down the dark corridor
toward the pinpointed residential suite.

And then, like a savage blow, a wall of fire exploded in Faircloth's
brain. He gave a scream and jerked out his arms in an agonized
convulsion. He fell forward on his face.

Wave after wave of searing agony burned through his brain; he jerked on
the floor, trying to scream again, unable to force a sound through his
twisted lips. He heard shouts around him, and a whistle shrilled; there
were running feet. Somebody tripped over him, tumbled to the floor with
a bone jarring crash. Three shots rang out even as he dragged himself
to his knees.

He was blinded; he had never felt such horrible, driving pain, and
he clawed along the wall as more footsteps echoed frantically in the
corridor. Suddenly Marino was shaking his arm, and together they burst
through the open door of the suite as a roar of derisive laughter tore
through his mind.

Faircloth opened his eyes and saw the empty room through a burning red
haze of pain. He collapsed on a chair, exhausted, as Marino threw open
all the doors. He gave a shout down the hall and others came running.

Unbelieving, Faircloth stared around him, then looked frantically at
Marino. "You--you got him on the stairs?"

Marino shook his head miserably. "Nobody could see him. Not a soul."

The hoarse laughter grew louder in Faircloth's ears. "The cameras!" he
gasped.

"Three of them are smashed. I don't know about the rest--"

"You're certain?"

Marino didn't answer. The answer was obvious. The Alien had slipped
away like a ghost in the night.


                                  IV

Robert Roberts was waiting, nervous as a cat, when Faircloth arrived
at the Security office. There were deep circles under his pale grey
eyes, and a dark stubble on his chin. He greeted Paul with a silent
handshake; then they went back into the rear office, with its modern
panelled wall looking out across the valley to the tall white buildings
of the Capitol. Once it had been an inspiring sight to Faircloth. Now
he hardly even noticed. A rocket rose in the morning air, leaving its
white vapor trail like a pillar of cloud behind it. The weekly Venus
rocket, probably, or maybe one of the dozens of speculator ships off
for Titan. Faircloth scowled and sank into a relaxer with a sigh. "I'm
sorry, Bob," he said. "It was a bust. I couldn't help it."

Roberts mixed a drink and shoved it across the desk to Paul; then he
touched off the end of a long black cigar. "What's done is done," he
said sourly. "You thought he was sewed up, and it turned out that he
wasn't." He turned worried eyes to Faircloth. "What we've got to know
is why he wasn't sewed up. Something went sour. What was it?"

Faircloth was silent for a long moment. Then he said: "I think the
whole approach is sour."

"Very possibly. How do you mean?"

"I mean we're outclassed, that's what. This Alien is out of our
league--way out." His eyes caught Roberts'. "He's a telepath, Bob, and
I don't mean halfway. He's not just a feeble, groping, half-baked,
half-trained, poorly developed Psi-High human. I mean we're dealing
with telepathic power no human Psi-High ever even dreamed of--"

Roberts' lips were tight. "Exactly what happened in Chicago?"

"That's just it, I don't know." Faircloth sprang to his feet, his face
white. "Look, Bob, the building was virtually escape-proof. The boys
had every exit guarded three ways from Sunday. The power was off in the
entire building, and there was no way he could get out short of walking
through walls. And we had the walls guarded just in case he could.
We got him sewed up, and then we went in to get him, and WHAMMO!"
Faircloth clenched his fists, trembling. "I don't want to go through
that again, Bob, not for anything. It was murderous. And the horrible
part of it was that he wasn't using his full power on me. What I got
was just a gentle rap on the knuckles--"

"And he slid through."

"Clean. Smashed the cameras; got away without leaving a trace."

Roberts shook his head, and fished a folder from his desk. "He didn't
smash all the cameras." He shoved the pictures across to Paul. "See
what you make of those."

Faircloth blinked at them. There were several frames, obviously
printed from motion film. Pictures of a man-like figure running down a
passageway. The face was not visible. "Not much help," said Faircloth.
"Gives us a clothing description, maybe. Nothing else. He certainly
looks human enough!"

Roberts nodded sourly. "At that distance anything would. Can't even get
reliable measurements. And you didn't even see him?"

Faircloth shook his head. "Like I said, the whole approach is sour.
You're never going to get him this way."

"You've got some ideas, I suppose?"

"I have."

"Well, thank God somebody has." Some of the tiredness left Roberts'
face. "Let's have them."

Paul Faircloth lit a cigarette and slowly shook his head. "Sorry," he
said. "First I want some answers. Straight answers about a certain
individual."

Roberts' eyes narrowed. "You mean Ben Towne."

"That's right."

Roberts scowled and threw down his cigar. "All right, I'll tell you
about Ben Towne. It isn't pretty. Frankly, this Chicago fiasco was the
break Towne has been waiting for. There were Psi-Highs involved in
that raid. Towne knows it. And he's going to build a story of Psi-High
alliance with the Alien that will carry him to the White House."

Faircloth nodded grimly. "Does he have any conception of the
dangerousness of this creature?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Roberts snorted. "Of course he knows it! But Ben Towne is obsessed
with a single idea, and it twists everything he thinks into horrible
distortion." He leaned forward, staring at Paul. "Benjamin Towne wants
to wipe psi-positive faculties off the face of the Earth. He hates
Psi-Highs. Oh, I don't know the motives behind it. Maybe the fact of
his own imperfect body makes him hate what he considers a sort of
super-perfection appearing in the human race. It's a false premise,
of course. The predisposition of certain people to high extra-sensory
powers is neither a perfection nor an imperfection.

"It's just another tiny step in the evolutionary chain. It happens
to be a dominant gene factor, and in our society it happens to put
the Psi-High in a slightly advantageous position in comparison to
psi-negatives."

Roberts threw up his hands. "But the motives don't really matter.
Towne was smart enough to realize that there were lots of people
who hated and feared the expansion of Psi-Highs in our society. He
started fighting against it, and he's ridden that fight right into the
Chairmanship of the American Senatorial Council. If he can split up the
Liberal Council just a little bit, he can throw them out of office, and
move his American Party right in."

"And where does the Alien fit in?"

Roberts shrugged. "It's obvious, isn't it? Towne has taken an issue and
split the country wide open with it. And now, along comes a visitor
from the stars, an Alien visitor who steps out of his ship and just
disappears like a spirit into the population. An Alien who is fully
telepathic. Towne can control the news releases; he has the power to
decide on the security classification of information about the Alien.
It's been kept top secret up 'til now. But Ben can control the news,
and he can tie Psi-High humans and a vicious enemy Alien together so
neatly in the public mind that every Psi-High in the country will be in
danger of his life. It's political dynamite, and Towne is controlling
the fuse."

Faircloth's face was white. "And if the Alien is caught?"

"All the better for Towne. Then the 'rumored' liason between Psi-High
humans and invaders from space can be 'proved.' Towne is in the
driver's seat."

Faircloth nodded bitterly, and stood up, shaking the creases out of his
trousers. His face was grim. As he reached for his hat, his hand was
trembling. "That's just about the way I had it lined up, too," he said.
"Good-bye, Bob. Have a nice hunt."

"Sit down, Paul."

"Sorry. I'm not working on Ben Towne's payroll."

"I think you are," Roberts snapped. His eyes flashed, and he sat up
straight behind the desk. "You're going to work with us, and you're
going to follow through to the bitter end. You and Jean both."

Faircloth's eyes darkened. "Jean is not involved in this."

"I am afraid she is. Just as deep as you are. And you and Jean are
going to do what I tell you in this investigation whether you happen to
like it or not. That is, if you ever want to marry Jean--"

Faircloth whirled on Roberts, his eyes blazing. "What do you mean by
that?" he said softly. "What are you trying to say?"

Roberts' eyes caught Paul's, and held them. "I'm saying that you happen
to be a Psi-High, Paul. And I just happen to know it."

       *       *       *       *       *

Paul Faircloth sank down in the chair again, staring at Roberts' face.
There was silence in the room for a long time. Then Paul said, "That's
a pretty bad joke, Bob."

Roberts nodded sharply, his eyes twinkling. "I'll say it's a joke. It's
a colossal horse laugh--on Ben Towne. He was so sure that that private
file of his contained the names and histories of every psi-positive
individual in the country! It's a horse on you, too. It's against
Federal law to forge examination papers, Paul. It's against the law for
a Psi-High to be unregistered. Both state and Federal registration are
required. And it's against the law for two Psi-Highs to be married,
regardless of their stage of developement. Jean's work with Dr. Abrams
has developed her powers amazingly in the last couple of years. Yours
must be pretty crude, in order to keep them hidden so well--"

"You've gone out of your mind," said Faircloth flatly.

"Sorry, my friend. I'm afraid not."

"But you have no proof--"

"True, its strictly a hunch, and a little personal investigation. You
were through school when the registry law went through, and you must
have found somebody to leak the examination to you early. How you did
it, I neither know nor care. But all I need is a good strong suspicion
to subpoena you over to the Hoffman Center for a test." He smiled
at Faircloth. "Care to have me call Dr. Abrams? He's got some nice
definitive tests--"

Faircloth's eyes fell. "That won't be necessary." He sighed, and sank
wearily back into the relaxer. "I knew it would be spotted sooner or
later. I even thought for a while that Marino had spotted it."

"He had."

Faircloth nodded listlessly. "All right. What do you want, Bob?"

Roberts' eyes were excited. "I want you to work with me. I think we
can get this Alien and sink Ben Towne's raft at the same time. There's
no single person in the country as dangerous to Towne right now as an
unregistered and unrecognized Psi-High. And that's just what you are.
And with you and Jean working this thing as a team, I think we can turn
the capture of the Alien to the benefit of all Psi-Highs."

Faircloth nodded slowly. "It could be done if my ideas are any good.
And they certainly would require Jean to put them across."

"Then you're with me?"

"Okay. You've got the aces." Faircloth gave a defeated grin. "I'll
probably hate you for this but let's get Jean over here and do some
planning. The first job on the docket is to pin this Alien and keep him
pinned."


                                   V

Jean Sanders tossed her pencil down on the desk and flopped down
cross-legged on the floor. "I think we're going around in circles," she
said disgustedly. "Three separate circles," she added, with an owlish
glance at Bob Roberts.

"All right, we're tired," the Security chief sighed. "We've been at
this for hours."

"It's here," Faircloth said stubbornly. "We've got all the information
we need, if we can only pin down the application. Or at least we've got
enough information to make a start."

"The more I see of the whole business," said the girl, "the more it
looks fishy to me." She lit a cigarette thoughtfully. Her face was
slender, with black brows and big grey eyes, and her slim figure made
her look sixteen. "And it gets fishier and fishier the more we talk."

Paul nodded. "Exactly. There's something that we aren't seeing or
realizing or that we just don't know about this creature."

"Well, let's try classifying what we do know," said Roberts. "We've got
a picture that isn't worth a plugged nickel. We've got a few photos
of the outside of the ship before it exploded. We know that he's
psi-triple-high, fully telepathic, with the ability to fuzz up his
observer's perception of him."

"Disguise," said Jean. "It isn't perfect. He needs that to hide the
wrinkles in the disguise."

Faircloth walked across the room, staring at the walls. "Then there's
the ship. It was found near Gutenberg, Iowa, on a bluff overlooking the
Mississippi, three months ago. That's a fact. Farm kids found the ship
but didn't go near it. Scared stiff. Told their father and he called
Security. I don't suppose there was any way of telling how long the
ship had been there?"

Roberts shook his head. "Biologists and geologists both had a whack at
it, but the explosion destroyed all the flora and ground area within
twenty feet of it."

"Well, anyway, no occupant of the ship was found, and no trace of where
the occupant might have gone. Security sent a scout squad down to
photograph the ship and it blew into a million pieces."

"That's right."

"How many of the million pieces were recovered?"

"About ten. Magnesium alloy. Told us nothing."

Faircloth nodded. "Okay. Then the Psi-High report came in from Des
Moines, and you turned up the farmer and his wife who saw the Alien
the first night. What was their name? Bettendorf, I think. Jacob
Bettendorf. Rather dull folks. They fed him and sent him on his way.
Noticed nothing odd, but the farmer said his eyes felt tired all the
time the creature was there. How did their description jive with the
others you've gotten?"

Roberts shrugged. "The same--or I should say, uniformly different.
Nobody seems to agree. It's obvious that they don't actually see him in
any detail at all. They just think they do."

"You know," said the girl, suddenly, "that's one of the things that
bothers me. A lot of those people out there are Ben Towne's stoutest
supporters. They don't like Psi-Highs. They keep their eyes open
for people that act like Psi-Highs--you know, the way we're likely
to nod and start answering a question before a person gets it half
asked--or the way we sometimes forget our expressions when we've had
an accidental peep at some sweet innocent young girl's inner thoughts.
Those people can spot that. But the Alien went right through. Not even
a suspicion."

"He got into the city fast, though," said Roberts. "City folks are
likely to be a lot less observant than country people."

"All right," said Paul. "That fits well enough. Now, since he destroyed
his ship, we can assume that he is planning to stay a while. That
probably means that there have been others before him. He's too
confident for an advance scout. He knew he could mingle, and stay,
and observe, and learn, and get away with it. Probably his job is to
accumulate information, detailed information about human beings, and
with full blown telepathy he must really be making hay. And unless I
miss my guess, the information he wants most of all is information
about Psi-Highs." Faircloth faced Roberts and the girl. "This is
beginning to add up now. I don't think we're going to catch him in
a dragnet. No matter how skillfully it's laid. No matter how many
Psi-Highs we have on it, and no matter how well trained they are."

Roberts looked disgusted. "Then you're saying that we aren't going to
get him, period."

"Oh, no. I think we can catch him. At least I've got an angle that's
worth trying. We'll have no way of evaluating it first, because of
the nature of the thing, but in the end we'll either have the Alien or
we won't, and I think there's a good chance that we will. If we keep
playing the Chicago game we'll lose every time."

"But what went wrong in Chicago?" Roberts cried.

"Nothing, except that we were licked before we started. Look at it this
way. He's outguessed us every time. And if you analyze that a little,
it's not really surprising that he has because he's telepathic. He does
not need a twenty-page report and a road map to know what's going on
around him. All he needs is a hint. Just a bare touch of man's mind,
a slight flicker of contact, and he has enough of a head start to sit
down and figure out everything that's going to happen from then on.
Just like a chess game. You play along and suddenly your opponent
makes a move that reveals a whole gambit which you hadn't been able to
see before. But our Alien friend spots the gambit on the basis of the
first move instead of the tenth. We make a move and he has it pinned.
He knows we operate along fairly logical lines. He can follow out the
logical possibilities before they happen, and there's no possible way
we can trap him. Psi-Highs or no Psi-Highs."

Roberts scowled at him. "Then what do you propose?"

Faircloth grinned. "It should be obvious by this time. We feed the
computer with all the evidence we have, and let it meditate a while
and plot out a supremely logical approach to trap the creature on
the basis of what we know of him now. Then we take that supremely
logical approach, and change it a bit. We change it into a completely
_illogical_ approach."

       *       *       *       *       *

The call they were waiting for came through at three o'clock one
morning, after they had almost given it up in despair.

It had been a long, heartbreaking wait. Time after time Faircloth had
pleaded that they must have been very close in Chicago, closer than
they realized, that the Alien was just temporarily frightened, because
there had been no sign, no due to the Alien's whereabouts, no sign that
he was even in existence since the Chicago raid. Yet Faircloth felt
sure that sooner or later the contact would come.

It was possible, of course, that the change in the search pattern
had worried the Alien. Logically, a dragnet should have been set up
in Chicago, and the entranceways to all the large cities guarded
carefully. That was what the computer had said. "Probability is very
strong that the Alien desires to remain in a city, but suggests that
Chicago may not be the optimum location for him. Recommended heavy
Security measures be taken in Chicago and surrounding cities of
size. The probability is very high that the Alien is seeking some
specific information. Advise close control of all spaceports, air, and
rolling-road escapeways--"

And so forth. That was what the computer had said. Of course, the
computer was far from infallible, but its analysis and recommendations
were utterly logical on the basis of the information given it. That was
exactly why they were carefully ignored.

It was a gamble, and no one was more aware of this than Faircloth.
All Security personnel were withdrawn from the Chicago area, Psi-High
and otherwise, except for a small crew headed by Ted Marino, who were
scattered throughout the city. A gamble, but it was not entirely
guesswork that made Paul so certain that the Alien, if left quite
alone, would try to make contact with a Psi-High mind sooner or later.
Of course, that conclusion itself was the result of logical reasoning.
No matter what efforts were made to remove logic from the approach, it
crept in. It had to creep in.

It was logical that a telepathically sensitive creature visiting a
strange planet would seek to learn something about the segment of the
population that could expose his presence. He would seek signs of his
own kind of thought. Paul knew too well that a Psi-High mind that
was cut off and alone was a sick mind. That was why Psi-Highs always
settled in the cities, why they sought each other with such fierce,
desperate clannishness which in itself had bred suspicion of them in
the minds of psi-negatives. It was not a matter of choice, with them.
It was a desperate need. And Paul knew how overpowering that need could
be.

No, logically, the Alien would make contact with a human Psi-High,
sooner or later. It would not be difficult to keep control of such
a contact. The Psi-Highs were very few, numbering in the hundreds,
scattered in colonies in the larger cities of the North American
States. With painstaking care each one was contacted and warned, and
those in Security Service were spotted in the most likely places for
the contact they were waiting for. The roads were left free, and the
airports and spaceports were not checked. An invisible network of human
minds lay across the country, delicately tuned, waiting for the spark
of contact.

Faircloth was asleep when the call finally came. He rolled groggily
out of bed, his heart racing, and groped for the visiphone screen. Ted
Marino's face materialized on the silvery curve; a frightened, shaking
Marino whose eyes were wide with horror, whose hands jerked nervously
as he unsuccessfully tried to control them. His voice was on the thin
edge of hysteria. "He hit me, Paul. Just a little while ago."

Paul leaned forward, staring at the pale form in the screen. "Ted, are
you hurt?"

"No, no. But oh, god!"

"It couldn't have been just another Psi-High contacting you? It's
deadly important, Ted--"

Marino shook his head vehemently. "No, no, no. It _couldn't_ have been.
I've been in Psi-High contact enough to know what it's like. This was
different. It was like he'd lifted off my skull and scooped out my
brains."

Faircloth lit a smoke, trembling. "Did you try to fight it?"

The man nodded. "I tried. He was clear in before I knew what had
happened, but I tried. I--I think it puzzled him. It didn't do any good
at all. He just brushed it aside."

"Ted," said Faircloth. "Now listen. Forget about it. Don't write up a
report. Don't even think about it. As far as you're concerned, the job
is over. Get dressed, and travel south--down to Florida, Rio, any old
place, it doesn't matter where, just go. Use an expense account and
have yourself the time of your life."

Marino's eyes opened in amazement. "Are you crazy? I thought this was
what--"

"It is. Do what I say and don't worry about it. You're finished on this
job. When you've gotten a good rest come back to the Hoffman Center
and take up your training with Dr. Abrams where you left off." Paul
flipped the switch and turned back to the room, his heart pounding a
staccato cadence in his throat. He grinned triumphantly and began to
pack his bag.

The chase was on, but this time, the mouse was chasing the cat.


                                  VI

As if a dam had broken, the reports began streaming in. Three more
came from Chicago. Then a call came from Cleveland, from a Psi-High
technician there who was not remotely connected with the Federal
Security Commission. Then from Pittsburgh, then New Philadelphia. Like
a fearful, ominous flood the reports of the Alien's contacts swarmed
in. And Paul Faircloth and Jean Sanders were ready for them.

Their headquarters was a small suite of rooms in a middle class
residential hotel in the heavily populated metropolitan area between
Washington and Baltimore. Few of the Federal Security agents, Psi-High
or otherwise, knew this. They knew only a visiphone priority code
number, and a special word-key for scrambling. This was as Faircloth
insisted. Of all the agents posted and assigned, only Paul, Jean, and
Roberts knew the true nature of the operation, and each of them worked
out their own illogical details without telling the others.

The wisdom of such a procedure was graphically illustrated a dozen
times over for the Alien at work was thorough. An operative in
Pittsburgh had attempted resistance to the Alien's telepathic
overtures, as instructed, and suffered a burst of wrath that had left
him blubbering in a corner for three days until a crew from Hoffman
Center straightened him out with a week's diet of amphetamine and
glucose. More and more, the Alien's puzzlement and frustration and
wrath began to seep through, and Paul and Jean watched the reports, and
nodded approvingly. Three times, when they were sure that the Alien
had left a locality, they ordered cleanup squads to make raids on his
former quarters, quizzing the inhabitants and neighbors, asking a
multitude of idiotic questions, uncovering a half a dozen descriptions
and leads which they assiduously ignored. Then they began stabbing
erratically at locations where the Alien had _not_ yet been, raids
which were carried out with a viciousness and singleness of mind that
left the unfortunates who were questioned quaking in their boots. On
these raids, even the agents themselves were confused as to their
purpose.

And there were other tactics, a myriad of disjointed, unconnected,
abortive, harassing procedures, as though the whole search had suddenly
fallen into the hands of a madman. A rocketship bound for Venus was
delayed four days beyond an opposition, adding a half-million dollars
to the cost of fueling it. A whole series of road blocks were thrown
up between New York and New Philadelphia, virtually paralyzing the
commercial traffic between the cities for two days. Quite suddenly,
the order went out to close down on all passengers in the great St.
Louis-New York rolling roads, and Robert Roberts put in a grueling week
soothing the ruffled feelings of the businessmen who had been held up
and the companies whose products had spoiled when the swift-moving
strips had ground to a halt.

The news that there _was_ an Alien from the stars at large, that
Federal Security was waging a vast underground battle to capture him,
was no longer a deep secret. The tension mounted daily.

And bit by bit, carefully sifted bits of information were dropped into
the minds of the Psi-Highs who were still in the Alien's path. Long
hours were spent in the headquarters suite planning the pattern to be
used. But in the end it was a pattern well chosen and worth the effort
because it was soon evident that the Alien was heading for the great
metropolitan area which surrounded the nation's capitol.

No attempt was made to contact him. It had been entirely passive. The
Alien's overtures had received no response other than futile attempts
at shielding; no analyses of his contacts were attempted, and this
knowledge was planted so that the Alien was sure to learn it. Warnings
of traps were planted in his path, "secret" knowledge of closing
dragnets and carefully devised Psi-High weapons to be used against
him; occasionally such warnings were followed by abortive raids, either
too early or too late to meet him, lead by psi-negative Security men
who had no more idea what they were doing than the man in the moon. But
one by one, key facts were planted, pointing always in one direction,
aimed at one man, and always the Alien moved toward the city.

       *       *       *       *       *

Paul Faircloth and Jean Sanders seldom left their headquarters. Their
job was to keep the pattern moving, and to plan out their individual
parts quite separate from each other. It was terrifically wearing. As
the tension mounted, both of them grew more haggard. Paul had not found
time to shave in a week, and there were dark circles under the girl's
eyes. Much of the time she just sat, tense, listening, waiting. Other
times she helped him work as he fed data into the teletype and tape
readers which had been set up in their quarters. But even amid the
tension and exhaustion of the work neither of them could forget the
simple, awful fact that Paul Faircloth had been exposed as a Psi-High,
and that somehow, they would have to rearrange all that the future had
held for them both.

Each morning they spread the reports out on the table before them.
"Closer," Paul said one day. "And it's on his own volition. He hasn't
been pushed. On the contrary, he's been left quite out in the cold. And
he doesn't like it."

The girl nodded and glanced at the papers. "And he's definitely trying
to ask questions. Karns' call last night showed that better than any
other. And of course Karns didn't know any answers."

Faircloth nodded. "None of them know the answers. That's the beauty of
it. Try as he will, he doesn't get anywhere."

"Not yet." The girl rose, walking across the room. "Paul, I'm afraid.
We're shooting in the dark. We don't know what we're fighting against."

"Are you sorry you're in on it?"

"Oh, no!" She turned around, her face stricken. "I'd never want you
to think that, never." His mind was suddenly filled with shadows,
impressions struggling to get through, impressions that would make the
use of words ridiculous. "Oh, Paul, I'm afraid! For you, for both of
us. If anything should happen--"

"Nothing's going to happen, darling--"

"But what about _us_? If something goes wrong. Roberts knows about you."

Paul's eyes could not meet hers. "It was bound to be found out
sometime. I'd rather Roberts knew than Ben Towne."

The girl's eyes were wide with fright. "But we shouldn't be together!
Oh, Paul, how did he find out? Why did anyone have to find out?"
And then she was sobbing in his arms, and he held her close, trying
to comfort her as her body shook against his chest. "Jeannie," he
murmured. "Please, darling, don't--"

"But it's so unfair! Why shouldn't I be allowed to marry you if I want
to?"

"You know why, darling! It's the law. We tried to fight it but the
people are afraid of us. There's nothing we can do about it. They
passed the law, and they think it's right."

"Ben Towne thinks it's right!" she burst out scornfully. Her tears were
hot on his cheek.

"Towne backed it to the hilt, I know. But people are afraid of a man
carrying a single psi-positive gene, like you and me. What would they
do if they doubled? How could we tell what our children would be like?
Look, darling, think! You're just getting a grip on your faculties now.
You're learning how to use your psi-powers, and look what you're doing!
You can almost get through to me, and I've had no formal training at
all, I've been underground, just training myself as best I could.
You're nearly top-grade, Dr. Abrams says you'll have almost complete
control in five years, and I could too, with the proper training. What
would our children be like with the factor on both sides?"

"Well, what would be wrong with it?" The girl was fighting back the
tears. "Are we such monsters? Have we done things so terrible that we
have to be caged like animals and kept under control like criminals?"

Paul shook his head. "People only know what they hear. Ben Towne has
been a terrible, vicious enemy, and enough people believe him to give
him tremendous power. The people are nervous, and fearful, and there's
nothing we can do about it." He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket
and dabbed at her face with it. "We've got a job to do, Jeannie. It
might be the most important thing that Psi-Highs have ever tried to do.
We can't flop on this job."

"But Towne will just turn it against us--"

"Not if we work it right. And I've got a hunch that we're working it
right."


                                  VII

The visiphone buzzed shrilly that afternoon, and Roberts' worried face
appeared in the screen. "Paul," he said sharply. "There are some bad
rumors around. I think something's up."

Paul cursed. "What kind of rumors?"

"All kinds," said Roberts sourly. "They're saying the hunt for the
Alien is a fraud, that nobody is doing anything at all about it. There
were a couple of out-and-out charges that Psi-Highs are teaming up with
the Alien to make an attack on the government--"

"My god, can't somebody put the lid on that man?"

"That wasn't Towne's work. It was some other Federal Isolationist
Senator on one of the propaganda programs the Normal Supremacy party
has on TV. There's talk that the Civil Rights bloc in the Liberal
Council is getting ready to switch to the American Council side and
force a Presidential election. And that could put Towne in the White
House. He's getting ready to move, Paul. We haven't got very long. The
word has been sneaking out all over. Towne is behind it, of course,
but he's smooth; oh, he's smooth. Congress hasn't been joined into two
solid political parties for two hundred years, but they're doing it
now, and it'll be a bloody battle. If Towne can get the Civil Rights
bloc to switch to his Council he's got the Senate in the palm of his
hand."

"Who's the leader of the Civil Rights men?" Faircloth's voice was sharp.

"That's just the thing. It has been Mike Veriday. His brother's a
Psi-High. But his stock has taken an awful nosedive since this rumor
campaign started. The polls have got him trailing Kingsley from
Kentucky by three per cent, losing ground fast. Now Kingsley, it
seems, is in some mean financial trouble that Towne got him into, and
Towne is ready to clear him of some nasty charges if he plays along--"
He paused for a long moment. "We haven't got much time, Paul."

"Well, I hope we don't need much. But I think you can call in as many
of our men as you need to. If things get too hot for you, list Jean
and myself as missing, and throw out a dragnet for us. Because I think
we'll be very much outside the law in another day or so."

Roberts blinked at him. "Better tell me what you're planning, Paul."

"Don't worry what I'm planning. The less you know about it the better.
Just one thing, though. You remember Eagle Rock? The place we built up
on Timagami when we were in college? Put three men at a number where
I can reach them, and give them the location of Eagle Rock. Then tell
them to stand by with a fast jet scooter. Got that? And don't let
_this_ leak, no matter what happens."

"I wish you'd tell me--"

"We're fighting for our lives, now, Bob. And for every Psi-High in the
country. I won't tell you."

Roberts nodded, and doused his cigar. "Eagle Rock," he said. "You can
count on it."

Paul flipped the set off and sank back to wait for the Alien to make
contact.

       *       *       *       *       *

He struck at ten o'clock that evening, with a ferocity beyond their
wildest expectations.

They had known that he was near. The reports had come in, and they had
plotted and calculated his pathway, and waited. It was only a matter of
time, and the carefully planted information built a tangled, devious
circle with a single Psi-High individual in the center.

Jean Sanders.

It had to be Jean. Paul hated it. He wished it could be him, that he
could somehow protect her, but Jean Sanders was the only possible
person to bait the trap. Her psi-powers had been developed carefully
and painstakingly for years under the care of Dr. Reuben Abrams and
his staff at the Hoffman Medical Center. A Psi-High individual was
helpless to use his powers without training. Just as a child was
trained through long, gruelling years to use the mental faculties
of thought, and perception, and logic, a psi-positive mind required
training to control its powers of perception and physical control, if
its powers were ever to be used.

Paul knew that all too well. He had the psi-positive factor, too. He
had not realized, in his teens, when he had plagued and baited the two
Psi-High boys in his high school class, that there might be a time
factor in psi-positive developement. Other Psi-Highs showed the signs
of abnormal sensory apparatus at the age of one, or three, or seven.
The schools caught them, tested them, registered them and sent them
out into a life of fear and suspicion and hatred. They were considered
freaks, the more dangerous because there was no physical identification
that could be used to separate them from ordinary human beings.

And certain men had seen the great power that stood waiting for the man
who took advantage of the people's fears. Ambition is blinding; certain
men could see the danger to the comfortable, careless wielding of power
if Psi-High minds were to work their way into government. But minds,
like Paul Faircloth's mind, matured at different ages, and at different
times. And some slipped through the barrage of testing, undetected,
only to discover later that it was not the backs of the cards they were
reading, but the mind of their opponent that held the cards.

The faculty was feeble in people like Paul. He could not read minds.
He could not sort and integrate the confused tendrils of conscious and
unconscious thought that broke like an endless stream from a human
mind; he could not separate the reality of here-and-now thinking from
the strands of fantasy, and memory, and supposition, and frustration,
and desire, and half-understanding, and confusion that lay beneath the
surface of those minds. He could detect falsehood and he could feel
suspicion; he could sense love as he had never felt it before, and he
could feel himself gripped in the helpless frustration of pity; he
could savor excitement with a thousand tingling nerves, and he could
sense the blackest depths of despair, but he could not sort them out to
make a coherent picture of the thoughts streaming from a human mind. It
took a lifetime of training of a Psi-High mind to do that.

But Jean Sanders could. That was why she was waiting in the room with
him when the Alien struck.

She was walking across the room when it happened. She stiffened,
screamed, and even Paul's untrained mind caught the impact of the wave
of fear and revulsion that swept from her mind. She sank to the floor,
and Paul stood by, watching helplessly as she twisted and writhed in
the blind agony of the powerful invasion. "Please," she choked, white
faced. "Get me a pillow. Then--then listen--"

"Don't fight him," Paul whispered. "Let him in. Let him clear in. And
then jump on him for all you're worth. Dig, dig deep--"

Her eyes became huge, like the eyes of an animal, frightened beyond
hope, cornered, attacked and helpless to fight back. Her neck strained
back, and her teeth clenched. The blood drained from her face as she
began moaning. "I can't, Paul--" she cried, "I--I can't get in--"

"You've got to--" Frantically Paul tried to thrust out with his mind,
tried to dig through the wall of immense power that was present in the
room. The Alien was close, very close, and the presence of his mind was
overwhelming. Paul tried to break through, and then suddenly he felt a
pang of white heat sear through his brain, driving him back, a sharp,
savage stroke that doubled him up, clasping his hands helplessly to his
ears as he fell and writhed on the floor in pain. And then suddenly it
was gone as swiftly as it had come. He lay panting for a moment. Then
he managed to crawl across the room to Jean. He sank his head to her
chest, heard the slow pounding of her heart. He shook her, gently; her
eyes flickered open, her face filled with horror and loathing. "Oh,
Paul, I got--I got so little--"

"What did you get, darling?"

"Nothing. A picture or two, nothing more. Oh, he was so strong, I
couldn't make a dent--"

"What pictures?"

She sat up, her breath coming in gasps. "Nothing definite. Ben
Towne--yes, there was something about him--just the flash of a mental
picture, no rationality connected with it. And some papers, some sort
of file--" She clasped her hands to her head. "He--he stripped me
clean! I can't--"

"Jeannie! There must have been something else--"

She looked up at him, a strange light in her eyes. "I don't understand
it," she whispered. "There was a picture of a farm--yes, a farm, and a
dog, and blood on a pair of pants--"

Paul sat back, staring at her stupidly. And then, suddenly, a light
flashed on in his mind, a flash so incredible that he hardly dared
think of it. In an instant he was on his feet, the blood pounding in
his throat. He began throwing clothes into a bag as the girl sat there,
watching him dully, in growing alarm. "Stay here," he said. "I'll call
you--"

"Paul--where--"

"It's my show, now, darling. Wait, rest, you'll be all right. Rest, and
say a prayer or two. Because I've got this Alien nailed for sure this
time."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was incredibly dangerous and utterly necessary. Paul found a
visiphone booth in the rear of a station where there were few people,
and quickly threw an adapter across the camera, and spun a roll of
film in. The film started when the party at the other end flipped on
the switch. The conversation was brief. Paul gave the address of a
roof-garden apartment in Central Washington, and then disconnected.
After removing the film, he reconnected with a number he had given
Roberts a few hours before. Ted Marino's face appeared, and Paul heaved
a sigh of relief. "How many men do you have, Ted?"

"Two."

"All Psi-High?"

"Certainly."

Paul nodded. "All right, we're beyond the law from now on, Ted. If you
or any of the rest want out, take off."

Marino's dark eyes sparkled. "Roberts said this is the kill," he said.

"It's not the kill you think. But it's a kill, all right. Take the men
to this address." He gave the roof-garden number. "Have a jet scooter
there, and see that nobody spots it. Use Security insignia. Send out a
bleeper if anything goes wrong. I'll be there."

He rang off, and moments later was rising high above the city in his
own scooter. In ten minutes he had reached the roof-garden, and settled
the little ship down gently on its gyros. He walked inside and sat down
in the darkness, and waited.

He heard another jet scooter land. Marino walked in with two other
men Paul remembered vaguely. He nodded to them, and they also sat
down. Paul fingered the shocker in his pocket, his nerves screaming a
thousand warnings in his ears.

The guard robot on the ground floor bleeped sharply. Paul reached for
the lock-release switch, and heard the elevator start to whine. He
unlocked the door and left it ajar, then motioned to one of the men.
"Cover the hallway, and back them up when they come. Don't be surprised
at who it is."

The man disappeared down the hall. Paul sat quietly, and then heard the
elevator open. There were footsteps, and a tapping sound. The footsteps
stopped at the door.

"Come on in," he called sharply. "Bob'll be with you in just a minute."

The door swung open and Senatorial Councilman Ben Towne walked into the
room, followed by two tight-faced men. One of the men had a hand in his
jacket pocket. Towne blinked at Faircloth, and his grin began to fade
into alarm. "Who in the hell are you?"

"One of Roberts' men."

"Roberts said you had the Alien," Towne snarled. His green eyes peered
around the room.

Marino swung on the man to the right, bringing him down with a blow to
the temple. Paul slapped Towne's cane to the floor, and pounced on the
other guard like a cat. The Councilman staggered against the door jamb,
trying desperately to reach his cane. Moments later the guards were
helpless, and Paul and Marino dragged Towne out to the middle of the
room. "The files," Paul said sharply. "Where do you keep them?"

Towne's breath came heavily. "You damned snakes can't get away with
this--"

"The files, Councilman."

His eyes went around the room fearfully. "The boys know where they
are," he said finally, his voice so low it was hardly audible.

"Any duplicates?"

"Not of the files you want."

Paul nodded to the two men. "Take them down and get the files. Then
turn the men and files over to Roberts. Tell him to see that the men
forget all about this." He turned back to Towne. "You're taking a
little ride."

"When this hits the papers it'll be the end of the road for you
freaks," Towne snarled. "You can't stop it now--"

"We'll see," said Faircloth. "Now shut up and get moving."

They left the cane in the room. Paul helped Marino load him aboard the
jet scooter. "Take him up to Eagle Rock. Keep him there. Dismantle
the engine, if you have to, to keep him there. I'll be there in a few
hours."

Marino nodded. "Should I report to Roberts?"

"Don't bother. Roberts would have a stroke. I brought Towne over here
on a dummy visiphone film of Roberts, which will put him in enough hot
water as it is."

"And where are you going?"

"I'm taking a plane west. I've got a visit to make. I've got to see a
man about a dog."


                                 VIII

The farmer blinked across the table at him, red eyed and fearful.
"I don't know what you want," he was saying. His voice was high and
querulous. "I didn't ask no trouble of the Federal Men. They asked me
all them questions, and I told them--"

"That's all right," said Faircloth. "We're just rechecking. You were
the first party the Alien contacted as far as we can tell. The ship
landed on your property, didn't it?"

The farmer nodded. "Over by the river. Scrub oak and elms standing over
there on the bluff. Haven't never cleared it because it'd be too rocky
to farm."

"All right, all right," said Faircloth sharply. "I want you to tell me
what happened that night."

The farmer's eyes flitted to Faircloth's face and back down to the
table. "I already told you twenty times. Why do you pick on me?" he
whined. "I couldn't help it he happened to stop here. Heard him on the
porch about ten o'clock at night--I was just gettin' ready for bed.
And he said he was travelin' and wanted something to eat. We don't see
strangers around here very often, Mister--" he looked up at Faircloth
fearfully. "I--I looked at him, and he looked all right to me. My eyes
were tired, like I said. I couldn't see him too well, but he came in,
and ate, and I offered to bed him for the night. He said no, he had to
make on for Des Moines."

Faircloth watched the man's eyes. "Details, Mr. Bettendorf. You've
left some out along the line, haven't you? I have a report here that
was filed by our field team that talked to you." He pulled out a sheaf
of papers in the dim kitchen light. "Says something about your dog
barking."

The farmer's face went white. "There anything wrong with that? I reckon
the dog did bark. I don't remember."

"And you went to open the door, and the stranger was there, eh?"

The farmer nodded his head eagerly. "I told you everything--"

"And you brought him in and fed him and then sent him on his way?"

"That's right, that's what I done."

"You're a liar," said Faircloth. He eyed the man coldly. "Try the story
over again. Once more now."

The farmer jolted to his feet, his eyes feverish. "I done just like I
told you. I didn't tell no lie. I heard the dog yelping--"

"And you opened the door and there was a stranger there." Faircloth's
voice was sharp. "Then what happened? Step by step. Minute by minute. I
mean it, mister, I want the truth."

"I--I looked at him--"

"What light did you have?"

"This here same light. Not very much--"

"And what did he say?"

"He said, 'I'm a traveler and I'd like something to eat.'"

"And what did his voice sound like?"

The farmer faltered. "It was funny--like gravel in a tin can. A funny
kind of voice."

"And where was the dog all this time?"

The farmer blanched, "He--he done stayed outside. He saw it was all
right."

"Where's the dog now?"

"I sold him. I mean he ran away. You can't keep a dog forever, Mister."

Faircloth's face was very near the old man's. "The stranger was out on
the porch and you talked to him and let him come in. And then what did
you do?"

"I--he sat down at the table, I think--I--I--"

"You went over to get some food from the stove, didn't you?"

"Yes, yes, that's right."

"And then you saw blood on his pants, didn't you? And you remembered
hearing your dog give a yelp out in the yard, didn't you? The stranger
had blood all over his pants and boots, didn't he?"

The farmer's eyes were wide with fear. He was shaking his head
helplessly. "No--no--"

"And so you picked up your gun and you shot him, didn't you?"

And then the old man's face was in his hands, bending over the table,
crying like a baby--huge, fearful sobs racking his boney shoulders. "He
killed my dog," he choked between sobs. "He killed old Brownie, gave
him a kick that split his head open. He didn't have to do that to poor
old Brownie. I knew he was a bad one when he did that. I shot him. Yes,
I did."

       *       *       *       *       *

The news broke to the nation that night, and the country went into
a panic unequalled since the days of the Great Cold War. Paul
Faircloth spent an hour on the visiphone from Des Moines talking to
Robert Roberts, going over the whole business from beginning to end.
The Security chief chain-smoked three cigars for the first time in
his life. Finally Roberts put a line through to the Speaker of the
Joint Senatorial Councils. Half an hour later, while Faircloth was
making his way by jet back to Washington, Roberts was in top-secret
conference with the Senate Council Leaders, and then with the President
himself. And then the news broke. It was an official White House News
conference, and it had been dismissed barely three minutes when the
radios and TVs were carrying the casts of the announcement.

Faircloth brought his plane down at Eisenhower Field, and saw the crowd
swarming across the landing strip before he got to the ground. A dozen
flashbulbs popped, and before he could get into the Security limousine
waiting for him, he was in the middle of a tight circle of reporters.

"How long has the Alien been at large, Mr. Faircloth?" one of them
asked.

"Sorry. The chief will have to answer that."

"Is there any doubt that he's telepathic?"

"No doubt whatsoever. I know that from personal experience. It's the
only way he could move freely in the population."

"How was he first detected?"

Paul smiled to himself. "The President gave you that information,
didn't he? A Psi-High citizen spotted him in Des Moines. The Psi-Highs
have been on his trail ever since."

One of the reporters was tugging at his arm. "There's been a lot of
talk about some kind of--well, liason between the Alien invader and the
Psi-Highs in this country."

Paul frowned. "If that were true, would we be working twenty-four
hours a day to trap him? Use your head, man. There've been a lot of
unfortunate rumors, I'm afraid. But I can speak for the Psi-Highs, and
I think Commissioner Roberts will back me up on this--the Alien is
menacing our very civilization. He's struck at one of our most beloved
public servants in an attempt to undermine the government and prepare
our planet for a full scale invasion. There isn't a Psi-High citizen
in the country who will rest until the monster is caught, and until
Councilman Towne has been returned safely to Washington."

"But what about Towne's anti-Psi legislation? He's always hated
Psi-Highs."

"Nonsense. Towne has been a loyal servant of the North American people.
He's fought for what he thought was right, and has exposed himself to
great dangers and personal vilification to do it. If he hasn't fully
understood the Psi-Highs' side of things, that's not a matter for us to
be vindictive about." He looked around the circle soberly. "The fact
remains that he's in the hands of a dangerous enemy, and it's our job
to save him if it can possibly be done." He nodded, and stepped into
the Security limousine. It honked its way through the crowd, and then
dipped down into the government tunnel that led to capitol hill and
Central Washington.

He picked up a paper inside the car, and peered at it eagerly. The
full-color picture of the President's grave face stared out at him in
tri-di, and on either side pictures of Roberts and Towne. It was an old
picture of Towne, a flattering picture. Paul grinned as he read the
story rapidly:


            COUNCILMAN TOWNE KIDNAPPED FROM SECRET MEETING

               President Reveals Alien Telepath at Large

    The President of the North American States revealed tonight in a
    special press conference that Councilman Benjamin Towne (Federal
    Isolationist, American Council) was kidnapped from a secret meeting
    with Federal Security agents last night in what was described as
    the first step in a plan for large-scale invasion of Earth by an
    Alien race from another planet. The President reported that one
    Alien, believed to be fully telepathic, has been at large in the
    country since his landing near Gutenberg, Iowa, last May 26th.

    The Alien's presence was first detected by a loyal Psi-High citizen
    of Des Moines and was reported immediately to the Federal Security
    Commission. Robert R. Roberts, Chief of the FSC, has been active in
    directing a nationwide dragnet to capture the Alien.

    Councilman Towne left his home last night at 11:00 P.M. in response
    to a call ostensibly from Commissioner Roberts. It is believed that
    the call was forged by the use of a dummy-film, and the Councilman
    was reported missing when he did not return home. The two attachés
    who accompanied him apparently have suffered severely from the
    encounter with the Alien's telepathic powers, and were unable to be
    questioned at the Hoffman Medical Center this morning.

    The President made special note of the excellent and selfless work
    of certain Psi-High citizens during the past months, in the course
    of a manhunt that has been shrouded in secrecy. The Alien's
    telepathic powers invariably overcame the efforts of psi-negative
    individuals, but through the efforts of the Psi-Highs, Commissioner
    Roberts has expressed every hope of ending the search within days
    and securing Councilman Towne's release.

Faircloth flipped the page, glancing at the smaller headlines. An
interview with Dr. Abrams reporting the training program for Psi-Highs
in progress at the Hoffman Center; a long article, discussing the value
of Psi-High powers in combatting a ruthless telepathic alien force;
an article by Roberts, very carefully worded, explaining that if one
telepathic Alien had come to Earth, others could be expected. Roberts
expressed the opinion that human psi-positives were the nation's
strongest safeguard against such an invasion.

Faircloth carefully folded the paper and spoke to the driver of the
limousine. The huge car rose at the next tunnel exit, and sped north
along the surface, then rose again. Paul waited, impatiently, and then
stepped out of the car at the given address. Five minutes later he was
holding Jean Sanders in his arms, while Robert Roberts sat chewing a
cigar at the far side of the room, looking vastly pleased with himself.


                                  IX

"It was handled beautifully," Faircloth was saying. "The timing was
perfect, and there's no question but that it will go across." He looked
up at Jean. "You're sure you got everything across to him when he
contacted you again?"

She nodded. Her face was still pale. "He turned me inside out. Cleaned
out everything I knew. I didn't resist. And then when we'd heard from
you he contacted me again, and I knew that we were right. He's been in
touch with me ever since. He'll be here soon."

Faircloth nodded to Roberts. "And you've arranged for the raids to
start up through New England?"

Roberts nodded. He looked slightly high. "Everything's under control.
Marino has a ship ready for takeoff, and we have guns up near Eagle
Rock to blast it down. Ain't many people around in northern Ontario.
The pictures will be rather bad, probably, but after all--field
conditions, you know.

"It will certainly look like the same sort of ship that landed out in
Iowa, and there won't be enough left when the blasting is over to tell
for sure whether the mangled mess that they drag out of it later is
man, Alien or oily rags. Those guns do a good job."

Something touched Faircloth's mind, lightly, like a quiet knock. He
swung around, his eyes wide. "He's here," he said, and then he saw that
Jean already knew. "Tell him to come up."

She nodded, and closed her eyes. Moments later they heard the footsteps
on the stairs, hesitant footsteps. Then the door swung open. They
stared at him for a moment, and then both men were wringing the man's
hand, offering him a glass, and he sank down on the cot they had
prepared for him, exhausted. "You must be dead," Paul said quietly.

"I am, I am," said the man. "Mind if I lie down?"

He was an ordinary looking man. He was slender, about thirty, and
very pale. A single-factor Psi-High had no distinguishing physical
characteristics; there really was no reason to expect a double-factor
psi-positive to look any different. But somehow they had half expected
a god-like creature, and he just looked like a frightened young man.

His face was mild and rather sad. But his eyes were clear and sharp,
and the mouth was in a grim line, as he sank back on the couch. "I was
afraid you'd never spot it," he said. "For a while it looked as though
the whole thing would backfire. I mean when Towne was planning the
shift in the Council and trying to force an election. I was afraid--and
in the midst of that, you started your cat-and-mouse game--"

Faircloth nodded. "We had no choice. We didn't know, and you didn't
dare reveal what you were doing at that point."

The man shook his head. "It was better this way, much better. I planned
to kill Towne and then let you capture me. Counting on you to work
the propaganda right. Then nobody would have known that the Alien was
killed before he even got started."

Faircloth smiled. "The computer even listed that as a possibility. Low
probability, but that was on the basis of what we knew. We hadn't even
considered it--yet every living Psi-High has known for a long time that
someday two Psi-Highs would have a child. We could only guess what the
child might be like."

The man looked up at them sadly. "The child would be lonely beyond
words," he said. "He would be able to hide, yes. He would be able to
slow down his psi-powers in order to appear like an ordinary Psi-High.
He could never have revealed it. Not even to his closest friends."

"And you knew that the real Alien had been killed?"

"Almost as soon as it happened. He died in agony. He had a powerful
mind. He broadcast so wildly that every Psi-High within a hundred miles
must have gotten a shower. I was in Des Moines, and got the whole
picture clear as a bell. Went down and picked the details out of the
farmer's brain. He was too frightened to tell what he had done, and
nobody paid too much attention to him anyway." He shifted wearily on
the cot. "The Alien must have been working so hard to maintain his
disguise that the farmer caught him short. I knew it, and I knew what I
had to do. I went ahead and did it."

"Of course Towne will fight," said Roberts later, when the man had
drifted off into a deep sleep. "He's clever, and resourceful. When
we 'rescue' him from Eagle Rock, he's going to know exactly what has
happened."

Jean Sanders laughed happily. "I'd like to see him," she said. "I'd
like to see him helpless just once."

Paul grinned. "You will. Things will be too far ahead of him by then.
And of course, there will be a physical and mental examination. It
will be a pity that the Alien left his mind in such a state of shock
and delusion but maybe after a few months of psychiatric treatment we
can find out the real reason why he hates Psi-Highs so much. And then,
perhaps, we'll have a powerful fighter on our side instead of against
us."

He looked around at the others, his face grave. "We can't afford
to have the world against us again, not ever. _That_ part of the
news broadcast was perfectly true. There _was_ an Alien. He _was_
telepathic. And there will be others coming--maybe in a year, maybe in
five, or ten, or a hundred--" He leaned back wearily in the relaxer.
"We cashed in on it, this time, but we mustn't forget the parts that
are true."

Jean smiled and put her arm around him. "They'll come, sometime--yes.
But when they come they'll find the Earth well guarded." Her eyes
drifted to the sleeping figure on the cot, and then came back to Paul's
and held them. "When they do come, there'll be others--like him--to
stop them."