ve the FBI chase ghosts while the real spy did his work
undetected.

But what if O'Connor were the spy himself--a telepath? What if he were
so confident of his ability to throw the Queen off the track that he had
allowed the FBI to find all the other telepaths? There was another
argument for that: he'd had to report the findings of his machine no
matter what it cost him; there were too many other men on his staff who
knew about it.

O'Connor was a perfectly plausible spy, too. But he didn't seem very
likely. The head of a Government project is likely to be a
much-investigated man. Could any tie-up with Russia--even a psionic
one--stand against that kind of investigation? Malone doubted it.

Malone thought of the psychiatrists. There wasn't any evidence, that was
the trouble. There wasn't any evidence either way.

Then he wondered if Boyd had been thinking of him, Malone, as the
possible spy. Certainly it worked in reverse. Boyd--

No. That was silly.

Malone told himself that he might as well consider Andrew J. Burris.

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridic--

Well, Queen Elizabeth had seemed pretty certain when she'd pointed him
out in Dr. Dowson's office. And even though she'd changed her mind, how
much faith could be placed in Her Majesty? After all, if she'd made a
mistake about Burris, she could just as easily have made a mistake about
the spy's being at Yucca Flats. In that case, Malone thought sadly, they
were right back where they'd started from.

Behind their own goal line.

One way or another, though, Her Majesty had made a mistake. She'd
pointed Burris out as the spy, and then she'd said she'd been wrong.
Either Burris was a spy or he wasn't. You couldn't have it both ways.

Why couldn't you? Malone thought suddenly. And then something Burris
himself had said came back to him, something that--

_I'll be damned_, he thought.

He came to a dead stop in the middle of the street. In one sudden flash
of insight, all the pieces of the case he'd been looking at for so long
fell together and formed one consistent picture. The pattern was
complete.

Malone blinked.

In that second, he knew exactly who the spy was.

A jeep honked raucously and swerved around him. The driver leaned out to
curse and remained to stare. Malone was already halfway back to the
offices.

On the way, he stopped in at another small office, this one inhabited by
the two FBI men from Las Vegas. He gave a series of quick orders, and