e on the corner of the
footboard. "Moy, be _reasonable_. The chances against the kid kicking
three times in any one-minute period are only about one in a hundred.
The chances against anything like--"

Moira grunted and stiffened for a moment. Then she cocked her head to
one side with a listening expression ... a new mannerism of hers that
was beginning to send intangible snakes crawling up Len's spine.

"What now?" he asked sharply.

"He says to keep our voices down. He's thinking."

Len's fingers clenched convulsively, and a button flew off his shirt.
Shaking, he pulled his arms out of the sleeves and dropped the shirt
on the floor. "Look. I just want to get this straight. When he talks
to you, you don't hear him shouting all the way up past your liver and
lights. What--"

"You know perfectly well he reads my mind."

"That isn't the same as--" Len took a deep breath. "Let's not get off
on that. What I want to know is, what is it like? Do you seem to hear
a real voice, or do you just know what he's telling you, without
knowing how you know?"

Moira put the comb down in order to think better. "It isn't like
hearing a voice. You'd never confuse one with the other. It's
more--the nearest I can come to it, it's like remembering a voice.
Except that you don't know what's coming."

Len picked his tie off the floor and abstractedly began knotting it on
his bare chest. "And he sees what you see, he knows what you're
thinking, he can hear when people talk to you?"

"Of course."

"This is tremendous!" Len began to blunder around the bed-room, not
looking where he was going. "They thought Macaulay was a genius. This
kid isn't even born. I _heard_ him. He was cussing Berry out like
Monty Woolley."

"He had me reading _The Man Who Came to Dinner_ two days ago."

Len made his way around a small bedside table by trial and error.
"That's another thing. How much could you say about his--his
personality? I mean does he seem to know what he's doing, or is he
just striking out wildly in all directions?" He paused. "Are you sure
he's really conscious at all?"

* * * * *

Moira began, "That's a silly--" and stopped. "Define consciousness,"
she said doubtfully.

"All right, what I really mean--_why_ am I wearing this necktie?" He
ripped it off and threw it over a lampshade. "What I mean--"

"Are you sure you're really conscious?"

"Okay. You make joke, I laugh, ha-ha. What I'm trying to as