th
more than a trace of admiration in his voice. "Complete and thoroughly
consistent. She's just traded identities--and everything else she
does--_everything_ else--stems logically out of her delusional
premise. Beautiful."

She may have been crazy, Malone realized. But she was a long way from
stupid.

The project was in full swing. The only trouble was that they were no
nearer finding the telepath than they had been three weeks before.
With five completely blank human beings to work with, and the sixth
Queen Elizabeth (Malone heard privately that the last telepath, the
girl from Honolulu, was no better than the first five; she had
apparently regressed into what one of the psychiatrists called a "non-
identity childhood syndrome." Malone didn't know what it meant, but it
sounded terrible.)--with that crew, Malone could see why progress was
their most difficult commodity.

Dr. Harry Gamble, the head of Project Isle, was losing poundage by the
hour with worry. And, Malone reflected, he could ill afford it.

Burris, Malone and Boyd had set themselves up in a temporary office
within the Westinghouse area. The Director had left his assistant in
charge in Washington. Nothing, he said over and over again, was as
important as the spy in Project Isle.

Apparently Boyd had come to believe that, too. At any rate, though he
was still truculent, there were no more outbursts of rebellion.

But, on the fourth day:

"What do we do now?" Burris asked.

"Shoot ourselves," Boyd said promptly.

"Now, look here--" Malone began, but he was overruled.

"Boyd," Burris said levelly, "if I hear any more of that sort of
pessimism, you're going to be an exception to the beard rule. One more
crack out of you, and you can go out and buy yourself a razor."

Boyd put his hand over his chin protectively, and said nothing at all.

"Wait a minute," Malone said. "Aren't there any _sane_ telepaths in
the world?"

"We can't find any," Burris said. "We--"

There was a knock at the office door. "Who's there?" Burris called.
"Dr. Gamble," said the man's surprisingly baritone voice.

Burris called: "Come in, Doctor," and the door opened. Dr. Gamble's
lean face looked almost haggard.

"Mr. Burris," he said, extending his arms a trifle, "can't anything be
done?" Malone had seen Gamble speaking before, and had wondered if it
would be possible for the man to talk with his hands tied behind his
back. Apparently it wouldn't be. "We feel that we a