ice; as
far as the officials were concerned, the ability to project
telepathically and the taint of delusions of grandeur went hand in hand.
Controllers were power-mad and criminal by definition.

Fear still ruled the emotional reactions against Controllers, in spite
of the protection of the Psychodeviant Police.

But David Houston knew damned good and well that all telepaths were not
necessarily insane.

He should know. He was a Controller, himself.

* * * * *

_Brrrring!_

David Houston tossed the paper on the bed and walked over to the phone.
He cut in the circuit, and waited for the phone's TV screen to show the
face of his caller. But the screen remained blank.

"Who is it?" Houston asked.

"Is this CHAring Cross 7-8161?" It was a woman's voice, soft and
well-modulated.

"No, this is CHElsea 7-8161," Houston said. "You must have dialed C-H-E
instead of C-H-A."

"Oh. I'm very sorry. Excuse me." There was a click, and she hung up.

Houston walked back over to the bed and picked up his paper. He looked
at it, but he didn't read it. It no longer interested him.

So Dorrine was finally in London, eh? He'd recognized her voice
instantly; even years of training couldn't smother the midwestern
American of Chicago completely beneath the precise British of the
well-educated English girl.

The signal had been agreed upon, just in case his phone was tapped. Even
the Psychodeviant Police could be suspected of harboring a
Controller--although Houston didn't think it too likely. Nevertheless,
he wasn't one to take too many chances.

He glanced at his watch. He had an hour yet. He'd wait five minutes
before he phoned headquarters.

* * * * *

He sat down in his chair again and forced himself to relax, smoke a
cigarette, and read the paper--the sports section. Perusing the records
of the season's cricket matches kept his mind off that picture on the
front page. At least, he hoped they would. Let's see, now--Benton was
being rated as the finest googly bowler on the Staffordshire Club ...

Everything went fine until he came across a reference to a John Harris,
a top-flight batsman for Hambledon; that reminded him of Robert Harris.
Houston threw down the paper in disgust and walked over to the phone.

The number was TROwbridge 5-4321, but no one ever bothered to remember
it. Simply dial 8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1, and every time a voice at the other end
would a