ng
to look at all the angles."

The worried look came back to the senator's pandalike face. "We have
to do something. If only we _knew_ that Forsythe's prediction will
really come off. Or, if it will, then exactly _when_? And is there
anything we can do about it, or will it be like the airline incident.
If we hadn't made them switch planes, nothing would have happened.
What if, no matter what we do, Moonbase One goes anyway?

"Remember, we haven't yet built Moonbase Two. If our only base on the
moon is destroyed, the Soviets will have the whole moon to themselves.
Have you any suggestions?"

"Sure," said Taggert. "Ask yourself one question: What is the purpose
of Moonbase One?"

Slowly, a beatific smile spread itself over the senator's face.

[Illustration]

The whole discussion had taken exactly ninety seconds.

* * * * *

"Mrs. Jesser," said Brian Taggert to the well-rounded, fortyish woman
behind the reception desk at S.M.M.R. headquarters, "this is Dr.
Forsythe. He has established a reputation as one of the finest seers
living today."

Mrs. Jesser looked at the distinguished, white-bearded gentleman with
an expression that was almost identical with the one her grandmother
had worn when she met Rudolph Valentino, nearly sixty years before,
and the one her mother had worn when she saw Frank Sinatra a
generation later. It was not an uncommon expression for Mrs. Jesser's
face to wear: it appeared every time she was introduced to anyone who
looked impressive and was touted as a great mystic of one kind or
another.

"I'm _so_ glad to _meet_ you, Dr. Forsythe!" she burbled eagerly.

"Dr. Forsythe will be working for us for the next few months--his
office will be Room B on the fourth floor," Taggert finished. He was
genuinely fond of the woman, in spite of her mental dithers and
schoolgirl mannerisms. Mysticism fascinated her, and she was firmly
convinced that she had "just a _weenie_ bit" of psychic power herself,
although its exact nature seemed to change from time to time. But she
did both her jobs well, although she was not aware of her double
function. She thought she was being paid as a receptionist and phone
operator, and she was quick and efficient about her work. She was also
the perfect screen for the Society's real work, for if anyone ever
suspected that the S.M.M.R. was not the group of crackpots that it
appeared to be, five minutes talking with Mrs. Jesser would con