ugh, unless you think of some very special facts."

Bors nodded. He puffed again and waited.

"He told you some of it," said Gwenlyn. "About the ship arrival Talent
and the dowser. There've always been such people with gifts that
nobody's ever understood, but that are real. Only they've always been
considered freaks. They feel that they're remarkable--and they are--and
they want people to recognize this. But they've never had a function in
society. They've been _denied_ all function. Take the Mathematical
Talent! He can do any sort of mathematics in his head. Any sort! He used
to hire out to work computers, and he always got discharged because he
did the computations in his head instead of using the machines. He was
always right, and he was proud of his ability. He wanted to use it! But
nobody'd let him. He was a miserable misfit until Father found him and
hired him."

Bors nodded again, but his forehead wrinkled.

"Talents, Incorporated is merely an organization, created by my father,
to make use of people who can do things ordinarily impossible, and
probably unexplainable, but which exist nevertheless. There are more
talents than Father has gathered, of course. But what good are their
gifts to them? No good at all! They're considered freaks. So Father
gathered them together as he found them. First, of course, he needed
capital. So he used them to make money. Then he began to do useful
things with them, since nobody else did. Now he's brought them here to
help."

Bors said painfully, "They don't all have the same gift."

"No," agreed Gwenlyn.

"And there are limits to their talents?"

"Naturally!"

Morgan broke in, amused. "Gwenlyn insists that I have the talent of
finding and using talents."

"A mild talent, Father," said Gwenlyn. "Not enough to make you
revolting. But--"

A door opened. A tweedy man with a small mustache stood in the doorway.

"I believe I'm wanted?" he said offhandedly.

Morgan introduced him. His name was Logan. He was the lightning
calculator, the mathematical talent of Talents, Incorporated. Bors shook
his hand. The tweedy man sat down. He drew out a pipe and began to fill
it with conscious exactitude. He looked remarkably like a professor of
mathematics who modestly pretended to be just another commuter. He
dressed the part: slightly untidy hair; bulldog pipe; casual, expensive
sports shoes.

"I understand," he said negligently, "that you want some calculations
made."

"I'm