names. There was no
reason for Lou to be related to Sir Lewis. They didn't even look
alike. For instance, he had no desire whatever to make a date with Sir
Lewis Carter, or to take him to a glittering nightclub, or to make him
any whispered propositions. And the very idea of Sir Lewis Carter
sitting on the Malone lap was enough to give him indigestion and spots
before the eyes.

Sternly, he told himself to get back to business. The elevator stopped
at the lobby and he got out and started down the street, feeling that
consideration of the lady known as Lou was much more pleasant. After
all, what did he have to work with, as far as his job was concerned?

So far, two experts had told him that his theory was full of lovely
little holes. Worse than that, they had told him that mass control of
human beings was impossible, as far as they knew.

And maybe it was impossible, he told himself sadly. Maybe he should
just junk his whole theory and think up a new one. Maybe there was no
psionics involved in the thing at all, and Boyd and O'Connor were
right.

Of course, he had a deep-seated conviction that psionics was somewhere
at the root of everything, but that didn't necessarily mean anything.
A lot of people had deep-seated convictions that they were beetles, or
that the world was flat And then again, murderers often suffered as a
result of deep-seated convictions of one sort or another.

On the other hand, maybe he had invented a whole new psionic theory
or, at least, observed some new psionic facts. Maybe they would call
the results Malonizing, instead of O'Connorizing. He tried to picture
a man opening a door and saying: "Come out quick, Mr. Frembits is
Malonizing again."

It didn't sound very plausible. But, after all, he did have a
deep-seated conviction. He tried to think of a shallow-seated
conviction, and failed. Didn't convictions ever stand up, anyhow, or
lie down?

He shook his head, discovered that he was on 69th Street, and headed
for the FBI Headquarters. His convictions, he had found, were
sometimes an expression of his precognitive powers; he determined to
ride with them, at least for awhile.

By the time he came to the office of the agent-in-charge, he had
figured out the beginnings of a new line of attack.

"How about the ghosts?" the agent-in-charge asked as he passed.

"They'll be along," Malone said. "In a big bundle, addressed to me
personally. And don't open the bundle."

"Why not?" the age