aerten said. "Like any other sense. But it isn't magic
any more than your eyes are magic. They're ... given by God, if you
like; they grow, they develop. So the ability to read minds, to transmit
thought is given by God. No one knows why or how. Fifteen of us have
developed it; fifteen who are members of the Brotherhood. But there are
others--"

"Of course," Jonas thought impatiently. "I know all that."

"You know a great deal," Claerten said, "which I sometimes find it
necessary to bring to your attention."

"I've done all right," Jonas thought sullenly.

Claerten agreed. "Of course you have," he thought, "but you're not the
most careful of men; and great care is needed. The Brotherhood must
grow. This new sense is of great value; perhaps we can learn to teach it
to others in time, though we have had little success with that. But at
the least we can maintain our numbers, pass the gift on to our
children--"

"If it is possible," Jonas said.

"We must try," Claerten said. "And your job is enormously important."

"I know that," Jonas thought wearily.

"You have accomplished the first step," Claerten said. "Do nothing
rash."

"Of course not."

"You will not accept help--"

"I will not," Jonas thought.

"Very well, then," Claerten thought. There was the ghost of another
idea; Jonas caught it.

"I know perfectly well that you wouldn't have sent me if there were any
other available member," he thought. "There is no need to remind me."

"I'm sorry," Claerten thought. He radiated caution, worry, patience;
Jonas turned in the bed and cut off from the director with a grunt. He
was tired; long-distance linkages were a drain on the body's energy,
even when the person involved was easy to visualize. But Claerten had
insisted on intermittent contact.

If there were such a thing as total contact, constant contact over a
period of days, Jonas thought, Claerten would use me for a puppet, a
veritable Punch among men; he would override me and take me over the way
a traveling entertainer rules his jointed dolls.

And that would be a fine thing for a hero, wouldn't it?

He grimaced in the darkness. Constant contact was simply impossible; any
reaching out used energy, and linking up for a long period simply burned
the body up like a long starvation; it was as bad as a penance.

Jonas was thankful for that.

And for the rest--well, he thought resignedly, what was a hero without a
quest? And what was a quest without so