out a man's mind being read. Nothing whatever." He essayed
a grin that didn't look very healthy. "But at least," he said, "you
know you're being spied on."

Burris grimaced. There was a little silence while Dr. O'Connor stroked
the metal box meditatively, as if it were the head of his beloved.

At last, Burris said: "Dr. O'Connor, how sure can you be of all this?"

The look he received made all the previous conversation seem as warm
and friendly as a Christmas party by comparison. It was a look that
froze the air of the room into a solid chunk, Malone thought, a chunk
you could have chipped pieces from, for souvenirs, later, when Dr.
O'Connor had gone and you could get into the room without any danger
of being quick-frozen by the man's unfriendly eye.

"Mr. Burris," Dr. O'Connor said in a voice that matched the
temperature of his gaze, "please. Remember our slogan."

* * * * *

Malone sighed. He fished in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, found
one, and extracted a single cigarette. He stuck it in his mouth and
started fishing in various pockets for his lighter.

He sighed again. Perfectly honestly, he preferred cigars, a habit he'd
acquired from the days when he'd filched them from his father's cigar-
case. But his mental picture of a fearless and alert young FBI agent
didn't include a cigar. Somehow, remembering his father as neither
fearless nor, exactly, alert--anyway, not the way the movies and the
TV screens liked to picture the words--he had the impression that
cigars looked out of place on FBI agents.

And it was, in any case, a small sacrifice to make. He found his
lighter and shielded it from the brisk wind. He looked out over water
at the Jefferson Memorial, and was surprised that he'd managed to walk
as far as he had. Then he stopped thinking about walking, and took a
puff of his cigarette, and forced himself to think about the job in
hand.

Naturally, the Westinghouse gadget had been declared Ultra Top Secret
as soon as it had been worked out. Virtually everything was, these
days. And the whole group involved in the machine and its workings had
been transferred without delay to the United States Laboratories out
in Yucca Flats, Nevada.

Out there in the desert, there just wasn't much to do, Malone
supposed, except to play with the machine. And, of course, look at the
scenery. But when you've seen one desert, Malone thought confusedly,
you've seen them all.

So,