Malone had seen legs and bodies and
faces before.

At least, he thought he had. Off-hand, he couldn't remember where.
Looking at the girl, Malone was ready to write brand-new definitions for
every anatomical term. Even a term like "hands." Malone had never seen
anything especially arousing in the human hand before--anyway, not when
the hand was just lying around, so to speak, attached to its wrist but
not doing anything in particular. But these hands, long, slender and
tapering, white and cool-looking....

And yet, it wasn't just the sheer physical beauty of the girl. She had
something else, something more and something different. (_Something
borrowed_, Malone thought in a semi-delirious haze, _and something
blue_.) Personality? Character? Soul?

Whatever it was, Malone decided, this girl had it. She had enough of it
to supply the entire human race, and any others that might exist in the
Universe. Malone smiled at the girl and she smiled back.

After seeing the smile, Malone wasn't sure he could still walk evenly.
Somehow, though, he managed to go over to her and extend his hand. The
notion that a telepath would turn out to be this mind-searing Epitome
had never crossed his mind, but now, somehow, it seemed perfectly
fitting and proper.

"Good morning, Miss Thompson," he said in what he hoped was a winning
voice.

The smile disappeared. It was like the sun going out.

The vision appeared to be troubled. Malone was about to volunteer his
help--if necessary, for the next seventy years--when she spoke.

"I'm not Miss Thompson," she said.

"This is one of our nurses," Dr. Harman put in. "Miss Wilson, Mr.
Malone. And Mr. Boyd. Miss Thompson, gentlemen, is over there."

Malone turned.

* * * * *

There, in a corner of the room, an old lady sat. She was a small old
lady, with apple-red cheeks and twinkling eyes. She held some knitting
in her hands, and she smiled up at the FBI men as if they were her
grandsons come for tea and cookies, of a Sunday afternoon.

She had snow-white hair that shone like a crown around her old head in
the lights of the room. Malone blinked at her. She didn't disappear.

"_You're_ Miss Thompson?" he said.

She smiled sweetly. "Oh, my, no," she said.

There was a long silence. Malone looked at her. Then he looked at the
unbelievably beautiful Miss Wilson. Then he looked at Dr. Harman. And,
at last, he looked at Boyd.

"All right," he said. "I get i