ter all, he'd found telepaths in insane
asylums, and teleports among the juvenile delinquents of New York.
"Crackpot" was a word that was rapidly ceasing to have any meaning at
all in Malone's mind.

He realized that he was still staring at the sock, which was black
with a gold clock. Hurriedly, he put it on, and finished dressing. He
reached for the phone and made a few fast calls, and then teleported
himself to his locked office in FBI Headquarters, on East Sixty-ninth
Street in New York. He let himself out, and strolled down the
corridor. The agent-in-charge looked up from his desk as Malone
passed, blinked, and said: "Hello, Malone. What's up now?"

"I'm going prowling," Malone said. "But there won't be any work for
you, as far as I can see."

"Oh?"

"Just relax," Malone said. "Breathe easy."

"I'll try to," the agent-in-charge said, a little sadly. "But every
time you show up, I think about that wave of red Cadillacs you
started. I'll never feel really secure again."

"Relax," Malone said. "Next time it won't be Cadillacs. But it might
be spirits, blowing on ear-trumpets. Or whatever it is they do."

"Spirits, Malone?" the agent-in-charge said.

"No, thanks," Malone said sternly. "I never drink on duty." He gave
the agent a cheery wave of his hand and went out to the street.

* * * * *

The Psychical Research Society had offices in the Ravell Building, a
large structure composed mostly of plate glass and anodized aluminum
that looked just a little like a bright blue, partially transparent
crackerbox that had been stood on end for purposes unknown. Having
walked all the way down to this box on Fifty-sixth Street, Malone had
recovered his former sensitivity range to temperature and felt
pathetically grateful for the coolish sea breeze that made New York
somewhat less of an unbearable Summer Festival than was normal.

The lobby of the building was glittering and polished, as if human
beings could not possibly exist in it. Malone took an elevator to the
sixth floor, stepped out into a small, equally polished hall, and
hurriedly looked off to his right. A small door stood there, with a
legend engraved in elegantly small letters. It said:

_The Psychical Research Society_
_Push_

Malone obeyed instructions. The door swung noiselessly open, and then
closed behind him.

He was in a large square-looking room which had a couch and chair set
at