ook
one look. It was a long, long look. Standing framed in the doorway,
dressed in the starched white of a nurse's uniform, was the most
beautiful blonde he had ever seen.

She had curves. She definitely had curves. As a matter of fact, Malone
didn't really think he had ever seen curves before. These were
something new and different and truly three-dimensional. But it wasn't
the curves, or the long straight lines of her legs, or the quiet
beauty of her face, that made her so special. After all, Malone had
seen legs and bodies and faces before.

At least, he thought he had. Offhand, 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 semidelirious 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 cookie